Deviant Obsession

Chapter 30

Rhea

The glow of my laptop screen burns my tired eyes as I stare at the withdrawal forms, cursor hovering over the submit button. My phone lies dark and silent beside my keyboard, no notifications lighting up to break the crushing quiet.

Not that I expected any.

No doubt Dean and Ethan hate my guts right about now. And Professor Shaw can’t exactly email to ask if I’m okay now that his stepsons are aware I let him bend me over his desk and pound me senseless.

That would be a little ludicrous. Much like my life right now.

A car passes outside, headlights sweeping across my bedroom wall. The brief illumination highlights my reflection in the window, making me wince. The girl staring back at me looks like a stranger—eyes rimmed red from a sleepless night of crying, skin deathly pale against the darkness. I barely recognize myself.

The silence in the apartment feels oppressive, broken only by Nat's soft snores from the next room. She has no idea why I haven't slept, why I've been sitting here since yesterday afternoon trying to figure out how I screwed everything up so spectacularly. The urge to wake her, to confess everything, claws at my skin. But I can't drag her into this mess right now. I can't bear to see the disappointment in another pair of eyes I care about.

I close the laptop, leaving the forms unsent. Running away won't fix anything. I learned that lesson when I fled Nebraska. But staying here, facing the consequences of what I've done...

The thought has my stomach in knots.

The first hint of dawn starts to creep above the horizon as I push away from my desk. Nat's classes start in a few hours. If I leave now, I can avoid her concerned questions, her gentle prodding about why I look like death warmed up.

I grab my coat and bag, moving on autopilot. The wooden floorboards creak traitorously under my feet as I edge past Nat's door, but her breathing remains steady. Somebody up there must be looking out for me, even if they’re tempted to tear their eyes out from the chaotic show I’m giving them.

The residential streets blur together as I walk in no particular direction, unfamiliar houses replacing the usual storefronts. Palm trees sway gently overhead, their shadows dancing across pristine lawns. I've never ventured this far from my usual routes before—maybe that's why I chose this direction. No memories here to ambush me.

The morning heat starts to build as the sun climbs higher, but I barely notice. My mind keeps circling back to those final moments yesterday, replaying Dean's voice cracking as he asked me not to run. The way Professor Shaw reached for him, trying to calm the storm I created. The sound of something—or someone—hitting the wall as I fled.

I'm so lost in the spiral of guilt that I almost miss it. The white steeple rises against the cloudless blue sky, making me stumble to a stop. A weathered sign proclaims Ramona Baptist Church in faded gold letters. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare across the street, frozen in place by the sight of those towering doors.

The last time I stood before a church entrance, I was eighteen and my father was telling me I'd never be welcome inside again if I left for California.

I stand rooted to the sidewalk, unable to tear my eyes from the church's imposing facade. The stained-glass windows catch the sunlight, casting colored shadows that remind me too much of Sunday school lessons about sin and redemption. Warnings about rebellious girls who stray from the righteous path.

My father's voice echoes in my head, his final sermon before I left. ‘ The devil comes dressed as everything you've ever wanted.’

The words hit differently now, thinking of Dean's cocky smile, of Ethan's knowing gaze, of Professor Shaw's commanding presence. Each of them offered exactly what I craved: freedom, acceptance, surrender.

Maybe that's all this has been—trading one form of submission for another. The thought makes my lower lip quiver. Have I just replaced kneeling in prayer with kneeling for them? Did I trade seeking approval from God with seeking it from dominant men?

A car door slams somewhere behind me, making me almost jump out of my skin. For a split second, I consider climbing those white-painted steps, pushing through those heavy doors. Maybe if I confess my sins, beg forgiveness for my depravity, I could start fresh. I could be the daughter my parents forcibly tried to mold me into. The good girl I used to think I was, before I needed to hear it whispered against my sweat-slicked skin.

But even as I take one hesitant step forward, my body rebels. The marks on my thighs seem to burn beneath my jeans—Dean and Ethan's initials permanently declaring my true nature. The ghost of rope burns tingle around my wrists, reminding me how alive I felt surrendering to their control. How right it felt to finally embrace my desires instead of burying them under shame.

"Thinking about going in, dear?"

The gentle voice startles me from my existential crisis. An elderly woman stands beside me, her silver hair gleaming in the bright sun. Her eyes crinkle with kindness as she studies my face.

"Oh, I... uh…" My timid laugh comes out hollow. "I'd probably burst into flames if I tried to cross that threshold."

Her answering cackle catches me off guard—deep and rich, completely at odds with her delicate appearance. "Oh honey, I know that feeling all too well."

Something in her tone makes me turn to face her fully. She can't be much over five feet tall, but she radiates a quiet confidence that draws me in. Her flowered dress and comfortable shoes paint a picture of sweet grandmotherly wisdom, but there's a knowing glint in her eye that suggests she's seen more than she lets on.

"I left the church a long time ago," I find myself admitting. "I've made some choices lately that wouldn't exactly align with Baptist values."

"Haven't we all?" She winks, surprising another laugh out of me. "I know I still do, when my arthritis permits."

Heat creeps up my neck at her implication, but her easy acceptance of her own supposed sins makes something loosen in my chest. She reaches out to pat my arm, her touch brief but grounding.

"The church will always be there if you need it," she says. "But there was a reason you left in the first place, wasn't there?"

I nod slowly, remembering the suffocation of rules and judgment. The constant pressure to conform, to deny every natural impulse. To be the perfect daughter, the perfect Christian, the perfect everything .

"Then trust that reason," she continues. "Trust yourself. The good Lord gave us instincts for a purpose, dear. Sometimes the path He wants for us looks different than what others might expect."

"I just feel so lost sometimes," I confess, surprising myself with my raw honesty to this total stranger. "When I left home, left the church... I thought I knew exactly who I wanted to be."

"And now?"

"Now I'm discovering things about myself that would horrify my parents. That sometimes horrify me." I twist my hands in my sleeves, studying my cuffs intently just to break eye contact for a moment. "I've met people who...who understand parts of me I never thought anyone could accept."

When I look up again, she’s nodding slowly, watching me like she can see everything I’ve done play out like a movie behind my eyes. "You know, when I was young, I fell in love with a divorced man. Back then, that was practically a mortal sin." Her smile turns wistful. "My pastor told me I was headed straight for damnation."

"What did you do?"

"Married him anyway. Best decision I ever made." She pats my arm again. "The thing about morality, dear, is that it's not as black and white as some would have us believe. What matters is being true to yourself while trying not to harm others."

"But what if being true to yourself means wanting things that society says are wrong? Things that feel...shocking to most people?"

"Shocking is relative." She chuckles. "What shocked people in my day wouldn't raise an eyebrow now. And what shocks them now...Well, between consenting adults, who are we to judge?"

She frowns at the looming doors across the street, as if asking the same question of those who often step inside. Those who know a thing or two about judging.

"The trick is finding your own moral compass," she continues. "Not letting others dictate it for you. Ask yourself—are you hurting anyone? Are you being honest with yourself and others? Are you treating people with respect?"

"I try to," I whisper. "But I've made a mess of things lately. Hurt some people I love."

She squeezes my hand. "That's part of growing up, honey. We all make messes. The important thing is learning from them, not running from them. If they love you, they’ll forgive you."

The optimism in her wisdom feels like cool aloe on a burn.

“Or,” she pipes up again. “They won’t. In that case, fuck ‘em. You’ll find someone else to love.”

This time the laughter that bubbles up from my throat is genuine and unashamed. I find myself hoping I can be half as brazen when I’m in my final years of life. “Thank you,” I giggle. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

“Any time, dear. Now, go get some sleep. You look like shit.”

She throws up a peace sign and heads straight past me, leaving me gaping after her, feet still rooted to the sidewalk.

I don’t know how long I stand there before I finally start the slow walk back home. What I do know is that I don’t glance back at the church once. I think over everything the strange woman said, finally letting myself examine the guilt that's been eating at me for what it is.

It's not about the sex. Not really. It’s not even about the kink, though that's what my parents would focus on if they knew.

No, what's leeching poison into my veins is the betrayal. The lies. I couldn’t be honest with Dean and Ethan after what happened with the professor. What I chose to do with him. Because it was my choice, and in that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted. But afterwards, I should have told them what I’d done, told them why I did it, and that's what makes me feel dirty. Not the desire, not the submission, but the deception.

I remember the pure joy I felt the first time I let myself fully submit, the freedom in finally embracing my nature instead of burying it. The way Dean and Ethan's dominance made me feel safe instead of trapped. How Professor Shaw's control excited me instead of suffocating me.

I'm proud of that girl who dared to explore her desires. Who refused to let shame dictate her choices. She deserves better than to go running back to a life of repression just because things got complicated.

The only question now is whether or not I’m brave enough to go back and ask them to forgive me. To accept me for all my jagged edges in a way that no one else ever has.