by Celia Aaron
A sharp whack on my side tells me that isn’t the correct response. “Don’t push!”
The head Spinner appears in front of me, a gag in her hand. Instead of a ball like I’d seen in the movies, this one has a dildo. “She needs throat training sooner than usual, according to Protector Adam.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The enema Spinner reaches for the contraption.
“I’d like to administer this myself.” The head Spinner holds the black dildo in front of my face. “Open.”
I don’t want to. But I don’t have an option. I open.
The Head Spinner shoves it into my mouth.
I gag, but she straps it around my head and buckles it at the back. Using my teeth, I try to bite down and push it with my tongue, but it only makes me gag more. An odd sense of claustrophobia sets in. I could die like this. Choke on my spit. Asphyxiate. All while the Head Spinner stares at me with a coldness that terrifies me.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing through my nose. In, out. In, out. The tube snakes farther up my ass, warmth filling the space and forcing me to clench my cheeks to keep it all in.
“I want to leave.” A small voice from one of the tables to my right.
I don’t look up. I have to focus on my breathing or I’ll die. I know it. The pressure keeps building in my ass as spit drips down my chin.
“Please, let me leave.”
I want to warn her. To tell her it’s too late for that. There is no way out of here. It’s a trap, and once it closes around its victims, the bars are permanent. When I hear a thud and she starts screaming, I keep my breaths steady. In, out. Another scream and someone else is crying. In, out.
“You are here to serve the Lord. You made an oath, and I and my sister Spinners are here to make sure you keep it.” The Head Spinner’s voice is oddly serene. “We will save you from the fires of hell despite yourselves. Now stop your sniveling and get back on the table.”
“Why? I thought we were here to—”
Another thunk and a squeal of pain. “You are here to do as we say, as is commanded by the Prophet!”
Several of the girls cry, their eyes awash in shock. They truly believed they’d be safe in the Cloister, that they’d remain untouched, unmarred. Fools.
I walked into this trap, fully aware of the bars and the rusted metal bits that promised pain and despair. I did it for Georgia.
I will find her killer. And then I will repay what happened to her with blood.
Chapter 6
Adam
She sits on the bed, her gaze downcast, as I enter the room. Red lines run along each of her cheeks. The Spinners did the throat training as I’d instructed.
I close the door behind me and flip the lock.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t strip and drop to her knees as I instructed.
I sigh and slip my belt from its loops. That catches her attention. She looks up, the same fire in her eyes I saw yesterday.
“Take it off.”
She knows I mean her white dress. I’m wearing black pants and a dark blue button-down shirt—my business attire. The all-white charade has ended for me. Not for her, though.
“Why?” The word is barely a breath from her pink lips.
“Didn’t the Spinners tell you not to ask questions?” I slide the belt through my palm, it’s top grain, soft like butter when it moves slowly. Fast is another story.
“What are you going to do?” Her eyes lock with mine.
“Tonight, I’m going to have to give you an obedience lesson. After that, we’ll see.”
“I’m not a dog.”
The challenge in her voice sends a current through me that ends in my cock. It stiffens, nudging against the front of my pants.
“You’ve already put three strokes onto the agenda.” I let the belt hang at my side. “Would you like another?”
She swallows hard.
“Take off your dress and get on your hands and knees like a good dog.” My heart careens against my ribs, drunk on the thought of her naked flesh reddened with my belt.
With one more look that telegraphs a pure, undiluted hatred, she stands and pulls her dress off. Inch by inch, I take in every delicious bit of skin.
“I see the Spinners jumped right into the waxing routine.” I stare at the bareness between her legs, the skin still pink and irritated. I want to run my lips, my tongue, my cock all over it.
She says nothing and climbs onto the bed, keeping her thighs together and crossing her ankles she lets out a breath. Her hair cascades on either side of her face, hiding her from me.
I move to stand behind her. When I get the full view of her bare pussy, my mouth waters. It’s a perfect pink tulip, the untouched center likely the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Gripping the belt tighter, I focus on her discipline. She’s a thing, not a person. I began telling myself that little mantra when I became a Protector for the very first time. It was the only way I could do what was necessary. Now, I realize how empty it is, how diseased I’ve become. I want to strike her. I salivate for it.
I used to lie to myself—I’m only doing this for her own good. She’ll have it much, much worse later if I don’t break her now. Those words are just as hollow as my diseased heart. I hurt her because I want to, because I fucking crave it, because I’ve become the monster my father always wanted. The same monster he is.
Drawing back, I savor the moment before the strike. The appetizer. With a vicious swing, I paint a red stripe across her ass.
She yelps and bucks, her ankles coming apart as her head hangs. I don’t give her a moment to rest. My beast needs to be fed. I strike again, her agony reaching my ears on an exquisite cry. Rearing back, I put even more strength into the last hit, letting the leather travel a little lower, striping across her most delicate flesh. Her howl lights up every pleasure receptor in my brain, and my cock pushes against my zipper.
Collapsing, she rolls over into the fetal position.
“We’re not done with this lesson.” I point to the rug.
She peers at me from beneath her curtain of angelic hair, then edges off the bed, her knees hitting the floor with an ugly thunk.
I refasten my belt and sit in front of her as she stares at the floor. “Like this, every night, understand?”
She nods.
“You can do better than that.” I want to touch her hair, soothe her. I shouldn’t. The desire doesn’t fit. It’s a soft curve in a sea of broken glass. I shake it off. “Delilah.”
She looks up, tears gleaming in her light gray eyes. “I understand.”
“That’s better.” I draw my finger across the red marks on her cheek.
I wonder how much self-control it takes for her not to flinch away from my touch. Her eyes remain locked with mine, though they give me no insight. They aren’t windows at all, but a steely wall she hides behind. Not that I can blame her.
“How did your gag reflex training go today, little lamb?”
She shrugs, her narrow shoulders barely rising. “I still gag.”
I grip her chin. “Open.”
She does, and I push my fingers against her soft tongue and to the back of her throat. When she gags, I draw back, then do it again, and again, and again. Spit pools and drips down her chin.
I withdraw my fingers and simply admire the slightly ruined look of her—watery eyes and a succulent red mouth. “You’re better than yesterday. It’ll take time. But it’s necessary.”
“Why?”
“There you go with the questions again.” I drag my fingers across my belt buckle. She doesn’t look down, but I know she can see the threat. “Besides, you know why.”
“The Prophet said we’d be safe here, that we—”
I smirk. “And you believed it?”
I don’t know why, but I get the sensation she’s toying with me. It’s unprecedented, and I can’t tell if I like it or not. I suspect I do.
Leaning forward, I grab a handful of her hair and yank her head back, bending her spine so she loo
ks straight up at me. “I think you knew the Prophet’s promises were lies.” A hint of paranoia whispers in my mind. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
I know she isn’t. We’ve had the county sheriff on our payroll and his family in the reserved front row every Sunday. But there was something different about her. Off.
“Some sort of reporter?” I shake her, enjoying her wince of pain.
“No.”
The church has enough fingers in the national and local media pie to figure out if anyone has sent in a mole. So, it wasn’t that. But what?
“Why would anyone who knew what the Cloister truly is volunteer to be a Maiden?” I voice the question that’s been bothering me since the previous night. My other Maidens—they actually believed in my father’s circus sideshow. But Delilah isn’t like them. The fact that I can’t quite delineate what sets her apart is a thorn that is slowly working its way into my gray matter.
“God led me here.”
I release her and sit back. “Bullshit.”
She barely keeps her balance, but settles back onto her knees, those ethereal eyes locked on mine. “The Prophet will keep his promises. I am where God wants me to be.”
If she had any idea of what the Prophet truly intended to do with her, she wouldn’t be bothering with this charade.
“What other training did you get today?”
“They performed an…” Her gaze almost wavers, but she holds it. “Enema.”
“Do you know why they do that?”
She shakes her head, genuine curiosity in her eyes. The darkest part of me hungers for what she will reveal next. Shock, disgust, maybe even interest?
“For when I take your ass.”
Her eyebrows lower. “What?”
“They’re preparing you for when I decide it’s time for you to feel me deep in your ass.” I take a little too much pleasure in the explanation.
“But, I thought… I’m a virgin, and I thought that’s why the Prophet—”
“Oh, you’ll still be pure afterwards.” I want to devour every last drop of despair she lets slip through. “Still a virgin.”
A shiver cuts through her, and she crosses her arms over her stomach. “I’ll never agree.”
“No?” I smile, perhaps because I can sense it infuriates her.
“You can’t force me.” Her fire lashes out, burning me in the most indulgent way.
“I can’t?” I grab another handful of her hair and yank her up.
She yelps as I throw her on the bed and cover her body with mine. On all fours, she tries to buck me but can’t. She thrashes as I slide my hand down her back and ass.
“See?” I spread her cheeks apart and push my knees between hers.
Still struggling, she yells, “Stop!”
I don’t.
I run my finger down her ass and press it against the hole. “I can do whatever I want with you, Delilah. I could face fuck you right now. Plunge into your ass. Bite your pussy and tongue this tight little hole.” I push just a little, almost breaching her.
“Stop!” Her yell is muffled in the comforter.
I push back and stand as she flips over and scuttles until she hits the headboard.
“Stay away from me!” She breathes hard, her breasts rising and falling, pink creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. Beautiful.
“I can’t.” I give her another smirk. “But that’s all for tonight.”
When I close and lock her door, I feel her sob before I hear it.
“Where are the rest of the receipts?” I sift through the pile of information on my desk, dropped there by the dumbest bagman we’ve ever hired.
“Oh, I guess they must be in the car still.” He turns, his redneck “Duck Dynasty” t-shirt even more offensive from the back.
Once he’s left my office, I hit a button and turn on the flatscreen on the wall. There she is, Delilah, sitting on her bed and chewing her thumbnail. She does that a lot. Sometimes she hugs her knees and rocks. I watch it all. Before, I would check on my Maiden once a month at most. With Delilah, I can’t stop looking.
I scared her tonight. I had to. No, I wanted to. The fear in her was like the scent of fresh blood to a hound. I crave it.
A knock sounds at my door and Franklin walks in.
I scowl and flip off the TV screen. “What do you want?”
“Me and the boys are heading to the Chapel.”
“So?”
He shifts from one foot to the other, his bald pate shiny with oil. “The Prophet said we had to check in with you before we could—”
“Go.” I wave him away. “But don’t do any permanent damage like last time. That costs us money.”
His smile somehow makes him even uglier. “I won’t.”
“Fuck off.” I flip the screen back on as he hustles down the hall, ready to spend his evening snorting blow and getting his filthy dick wet.
Returning my attention to Delilah, I stare at the curve of her neck where it disappears into her white gown. Would she end up at the Chapel? The thought rots in my gut as I consider her delicate features.
“I got ‘em.” The Duck Dynasty dipshit returns with a tattered notebook in his hand. “Wrote it all down just like you told me.”
“Leave it.” I point to an empty spot on the scarred wooden surface.
He drops it there, then glances at the TV. “She’s a looker.”
“Get the fuck out!” I reach for the pistol in the holster under my desk, my control hanging by a thread. Offing this lowlife would go a long way toward stress relief.
“Sorry, boss.” He holds up his hands and backs away. Each step farther from me he gets, the easier I feel. I release the pistol and settle into my chair.
Grabbing the notebook, I flip through to check what amounts he received from our smattering of all-cash business. We didn’t need many to cover our money laundering side of the business. By far the easiest place to launder money was the church. No taxes, all cash, no IRS problems. We built an empire on it, along with quite a few other unscrupulous avenues.
I tally up the numbers and make the additions to a handful of spreadsheets. The drudgery eats away at me. But I can’t escape it. My die was cast a long time ago. I’m almost as trapped as my Maiden. At the thought, I look up at the screen.
Rage blots out whatever thoughts I have as I grab the pistol and rush out the door.
Chapter 7
Delilah
A soft knock at my door tears my attention away from the thumbnail I’ve been chewing on for half an hour.
“It’s me.” A low voice—the Spinner with the scar along her forehead. Spinner Chastity, I think they call her.
I walk over and flip the lock. The door shoves forward, knocking me back. Chastity gives me a wide-eyed look before the Protector who grabbed her thrusts her aside, enters my room, and slams and locks the door behind him.
“Get on the bed.” He isn’t familiar—his brown eyes, brown hair, and pockmarked skin nothing to remember.
I scoot back across the floor until my back hits the wall next to the bathroom. “You can’t be in here.” My stomach churns, acid splashing up my throat.
“I’m a Protector, bitch. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He glowers. “Except the one fucking thing I want the most. But I’ll make do with everything else.”
“Please—”
He rushes forward and grabs a handful of my hair, then wrenches me off the floor. I scream and slap at his forearm as he yanks me to the bed.
“Bitch.” He draws back one hand and slaps me.
My ears ring, but I keep fighting, clawing at his arms.
He slaps me again, and this time I taste blood. He’s yanking at my clothes, trying to rip the dress off me. I keep screaming, hoping Chastity or even the Head Spinner will burst through the door. But they don’t. The dress tears along the seams, the material cutting into my skin as it shreds.
“Fucking bitch!” he yells as I scratch his face, then wraps his hands around m
y throat.
I try to pry his fingers away as my throat burns, my eyes water, and I can’t draw a breath. He settles on top of me, his crushing weight only added to the pressure at my throat.
I’m going to die like this. The hate in his eyes tells me that’s the truth. I will end because of his violence. He squeezes tighter, and I can’t feel anything except the burning in my lungs, the pain at my neck.
A crack shatters my agony, and he collapses on top of me. Warmth rushes over my face as I gasp in a breath, then another.
His weight lifts as Adam throws him to the floor, then Adam fires another shot into his prone body. Without casting me so much as a glance, he strides out of the room.
“Clean this mess up.” He spits the words at the Head Spinner who comes into view just outside the door.
She frowns at the body, then at me as she rushes in. “This is your fault. You tempted him in here with your whoring ways, and now he’s dead because of you.”
I can’t summon the energy I need to be incredulous. All I can do is relish the oxygen returning to my lungs despite the burn that accompanies it. Is that what happened to Georgia? Did she die of idiotic rage? No. That can’t have been it. The memory of the crime scene photos resurfaces—the marks carved into her body, the elaborate way she was staged. Her death was no thoughtless act. It was a well-planned sacrifice.
The Head Spinner snaps her fingers. “Are you listening, Delilah?” Her voice has dropped to a lethal tone.
“I am.”
“Good. I expect you to have Protector Newell’s body cleaned and laid out neatly on your bed when I return in a few hours.”
“What?” I croak.
“Get to work.” She swings the door shut behind her, and I’m left alone with the dead man.
I just lie there for a few long minutes, breathing. Being alive. My throat swells, the skin hot to the touch as I gingerly feel the damage. My hands shake, and a tremor rockets through me every so often. My brain tries to piece together what happened, because my recollection is jumbled. When did Adam come in? Concentrating, I go through the attack step by step. Adam appeared at the end. He killed the man who’d hurt me. The scene came together like a movie where I was only a spectator—a piece of dust floating lazily in the corner. Adam killed a man without a second thought. But did he kill for me?