Sinner
I open the bathroom door and Zia grabs my shirt, yanking me inside before slamming it shut. Her mouth crashes against mine with a hunger that matches my own. Her lips are warm and demanding, tasting faintly of beer. I slide my hands over her curves, savoring the softness of her body, the way her muscles tense under my touch as our kiss deepens. She shrugs off her jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and I pull her tank top over her head.
Her pierced breasts are exposed, nipples hard in the cool air. I cup them, tugging at the heart-shaped arrow piercing one of them. Zia moans into my mouth, her nails scratching lightly down my back, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She pulls at my shirt, yanking it off over my head. Her eyes flick to the scars that cover my chest and back, her breath hitching slightly. Instead of flinching, she traces them with her fingers, her touch igniting a spark that travels straight to my core.
“How’d you get these?” she breathes against my lips, her voice thick with curiosity and lust. Her fingers linger on a jagged scar above my heart, the touch both gentle and insistent.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter, gripping her ass to pull her closer. The last thing I want to do is explain that I like feeling pain. So I kiss her again, my tongue plunging into her mouth, desperate to drown out the memories. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman, and I need this—need her.
Zia smirks against my lips, her hands moving down my torso, fingers brushing over my abs, teasing the waistband of my jeans. “I like a man with a story,” she whispers, her breath hot against my skin.
“Another time,” I murmur, letting my hands explore her soft and warm skin. Soaking in how her body responded to my touch with every needy arch.
“Good. That just means I get to see you again,” she says, her hazel eyes flashing with mischief. I lift her onto the sink, her legs wrapping around my waist. The porcelain is cold against my palms as I brace myself on either side of her. “Sounds good to me,” I say, grinding against her, feeling the heat radiating from her core, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through me.
Zia’s breath hitches, her nails digging into my shoulders. “I like your style, Alex,” she murmurs, her voice trembling with anticipation. Her eyes are dark with desire, her lips parted.
“You’re going to like a lot more than that,” I promise, my lips trailing down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, the rapid pulse at her throat. I unbutton her jeans, sliding my hand inside to find her wet and ready. Her small hand reaches between us, undoing my belt with practiced ease, slipping into my pants. I groan as her fingers wrap around my cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, her touch driving me wild.
“Tell me your story,” she asks, her voice husky, breath warm against my ear. Her hazel eyes, dark with lust, search mine. She’s craving more than just a physical connection, wanting to dig deeper, to understand.
“I told you, another time,” I whisper, but her grip tightens, her strokes becoming more insistent. My breath hitches, a low growl escaping my lips .
“Just a snippet,” she insists, her hand moving faster, squeezing just right. I can feel the tension building, the tight coil of need in my gut.
I smirk, thinking of a lie, but the truth slips out instead. “Hard life. Shitty parents. Shittier childhood,” I say, my voice rough, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
Zia bites her lip, her gaze flicking between my eyes and my cock, her fingers never slowing. “Sounds like we have more in common than just a need for escape,” she murmurs, her voice low and thoughtful.
“Maybe,” I reply, my breath hitching as her grip tightens, her strokes becoming more insistent. I feel the tension coiling in my abdomen, my release just within reach. I slide my hand up her thigh, fingers teasing the edge of her panties, feeling the heat and dampness waiting for me. “But right now, I’m only running toward one thing.”
“And what’s that?” she breathes, her strokes faltering as she shudders under my touch.
“You,” I say firmly, pressing her back against the mirror. My fingers slip beneath her panties, finding her slick and ready. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and she gasps, her head falling back, eyes fluttering shut. “Just you.”
Zia's lips find mine again, urgent and demanding. Her hands slide down to stroke my cock, and I feel myself teetering on the edge. I pull away, taking a moment to catch my breath, our foreheads pressed together, the sound of our ragged breathing filling the small space.
“Do you have a condom?” she asks, her voice breathless, a hint of anxiety in her eyes.
“No,” I admit, cursing under my breath. How could I have been so stupid?
Her smile doesn’t waver. She reaches into her jeans pocket, pulling out a foil packet. The sight of it sends a wave of relief crashing over me .
“I’m always prepared,” she says, tearing it open and rolling it onto me with deft fingers. She’s ready, and so am I.
I grab her braid, spinning her around and bending her over the sink. I thrust into her, burying myself deep. Zia gasps, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink as I move. The cramped space makes every thrust hit deeper, her moans echoing in the small bathroom. Her eyes lock on mine in the mirror, and the sight of her reflection. Flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the wild look in her eyes—sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
“Fuck, you feel good,” I groan, gripping her hips, pulling her back against me. The slap of skin against skin is loud in the tiny room, a primal rhythm that drives us both higher. “Look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are.”
Zia’s breath comes in short, desperate gasps. “Harder,” she demands, her voice barely a whisper, but the urgency in her tone is unmistakable.
I comply, thrusting harder, faster, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the air. Her moans grow louder, her body tightening around me as she nears her climax. I bite down on her shoulder, fighting to hold on as pleasure threatens to overwhelm me. The bathroom door rattles as someone bangs on it from the other side, but I ignore it, focused only on the woman in front of me.
Zia cries out, her body shuddering as she comes, and I follow, burying myself deep as I release, the sensation crashing over me like a tidal wave. I hold her against me, both of us breathing heavily, the world outside the bathroom fading away. We stay like that for a moment, bodies tangled, sweat-slicked, savoring the aftermath.
As I pull out, my mind drifts to Marisol. A brief, fleeting thought of how she'd feel. Would her pussy be this tight, this welcoming? A smirk tugs at my lips. No, Marisol would be better—divine, even. That thought lingers as I slip off the condom, knotting it before tossing it in the trash.
We fix ourselves up in silence, exchanging glances here and there. Her fingers brush against mine as she slips past me to retrieve her jacket, and I catch her hand, pulling her close for one last kiss. It’s soft and lingering, a promise of more to come.
For the next few days, I may have found my escape.
“I’m in town until Sunday,” I say, slipping on my shirt and watching her pull her tank top over her head.
“Good thing I’m here until Sunday too,” she replies, buttoning up her jeans, a playful smile curving her lips.
“Tomorrow, same time?” I ask the words out before I can stop them. Not that I cared to form any kind of connection, but a man has needs and I could use the distraction. She shakes her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Come to my motel. We’ll have more time.” She pulls a Sharpie from her jacket and scribbles an address on my hand. Her handwriting is remarkably neat, a stark contrast to the wildness that pulses between us.
I nod, watching her leave, her hips swaying, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. “It was nice to meet you, Alex,” she says over her shoulder, disappearing into the bar, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the fading echoes of our encounter.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself as I head back to my motel room. The cool night air bites at my heated skin, a welcome contrast that helps steady my thoughts. The late hour wraps the town in silence as the streets of Taos remain deserted. My mind drifts to Marisol—wondering what she’s doing. I shake my head, trying to focus, but then the memory of Zia invades my thoughts, the way she clenched around me, pulling me back into that moment. I exhale slowly, forcing my steps to quicken, trying to outpace the lingering sensations. For now, the demons are quiet, content with the pleasure I offered them.
Back in the room, I take a shower and get ready for bed. Tomorrow, I’ll head to the market and stalk my prey. More importantly, I'll get to see the object of my obsession, of my desire. My beautiful little sinner. According to the intel, Victor likes to bring his little dove there for art supplies and flowers. I’ll be waiting for them.
As sleep claims me, the familiar weight of exhaustion drags me under, pulling me into the dark, twisted labyrinth of my memories. They come for me every night, these relentless nightmares—ghosts of a past I can never escape.
It begins like it always does, in that small, suffocating room. The walls close in around me, the air thick with the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. I’m a child again, no more than six or seven, huddled in the corner on a threadbare mattress that smells of urine and fear. My mother’s shadow looms large, distorted by the flickering candlelight. She’s pacing the room, muttering to herself in that slurred, angry voice that sends shivers down my spine.
“Worthless,” she spits, her words like venom. “You’re just like your father—good for nothing.”
I try to make myself smaller, pressing into the corner as if I could disappear into the cracks in the wall. My small hands tremble as I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest, trying to create a barrier between us .
But there’s no escape. Not from her.
Suddenly, she turns, her bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. The rage in them is terrifying, and I know what’s coming next. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound deafening in my ears as she stumbles toward me, her movements erratic and jerky.
“Get up,” she snarls, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me to my feet. Pain shoots through my scalp, but I bite down on my lip, refusing to cry out. Tears would only make it worse. I learned that a long time ago.
She drags me across the room, shoving me against the wall so hard that the breath is knocked out of me. The rough plaster scrapes against my skin, and I choke on the sobs that threaten to escape.
“You think you can just sit there, huh?” she hisses, her face inches from mine, reeking of alcohol. “You think you’re better than me?”
I shake my head frantically, my voice a whisper. “No, Mama, please…”
But she’s not listening. She never does. Her hand whips out, and before I can brace myself, the slap lands hard across my face. My head snaps to the side, and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue. The sting of the blow radiates through my cheek, but it’s nothing compared to the shame that floods me.
She hits me again and again, her curses blending into a distorted symphony of hate. Each strike drives me deeper into myself, until I’m nothing but a hollow shell, retreating to that dark place in my mind where I can’t feel the pain. Where I can’t feel anything at all.
But the worst part isn’t the blows or the insults. It’s the silence that follows. The way she stares at me afterward, her expression vacant, as if she’s forgotten I’m even there. Then she turns away, collapsing onto the bed, muttering to herself as she drifts into a drunken stupor. The only sound is the ragged breathing that fills the room—mine, trembling and broken .
I slide down the wall, my knees giving out beneath me, and curl into a ball on the cold floor. I can’t cry. Not now. I have to be quiet, or she’ll wake up again. I close my eyes, desperate to escape the nightmare. Fear grips me, suffocating, until warmth seeps in, chasing away the dread. The scent of cocoa butter fills the air, soft hands caress my scarred skin, soothing me.
"Matheo," she whispers, her touch turning the fear into heat. I open my eyes, and she’s there, sinking down onto me, her gaze locking with mine. The nightmare fades. There’s only her, only this moment, her body consuming me.
I lose myself in her, in the way she moves, in the way she feels. All the pain vanishes, replaced by desire.
The sound of my alarm jolts me awake, and I’m immediately aware of the hardness between my legs. Stretching my body, I yawn before rolling out of bed. My muscles ache, and my cock throbs, desperate to taste the little dove. The little sinner. But soon, I will meet her, claim her, and then give her peace.
But before I can step into the world and hunt my prey, I must seek forgiveness. I must punish myself for the sins of last night.
I walk over to my bag and pull out the whip I use for penance, then walk back to the bathroom and as I look at my reflection I begin reciting the Bible verse. 1 Corinthians 6:18: "All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body." I begin my lashes. Each strike of the whip is a physical confession, a tangible penance. My chest tightens as the leather bites into my skin, drawing forth the sweet sting of purification. I embrace the pain like a divine gift—a holy communion between my corporeal form and the flourishing spirit within—bridging the gap between physical passions and spiritual absolution .
“Ten… Eleven… Twelve,” I count each lash, wincing but cherishing the stinging pain that cleanses my sins. Blood begins to seep from the welts on my back. My cock hardens as I finish my forty lashes.
“Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty,” I hiss, the final lash landing with a wet smack against my sin-stained skin. I let the whip fall to the ground, the cool air stinging my open wounds. My body hums with pain, sweet and purifying, while my cock throbs with need. I slip out of my boxers and fist my length, watching myself in the mirror as I stroke.
With each glide of my hand, I watch as my reflection contorts in pleasure and agony—a symphony of ecstatic penance. My harsh breaths echo through the room as I move my hand faster. I know I should see only a man, twisted by his carnal desires. But all I see is a vessel of God.
Who am I, really? A sinner masquerading as a saint? Or a saint battling the sinner within? It doesn’t matter. This is my truth. I’m both.
Slowly, deliberately, I bring myself to the edge, staring at my reflection in the glass. My other hand explores the open wounds on my back, feeling the contrast of the warm blood against the cool air, a testament to my sin and repentance. The union of pain and pleasure makes me shudder.
With a final stroke, the apex of pleasure crashes over me, my semen spurting out in an arc of white, the physical essence of my sin exposed for the world—or God—to see. My breath comes in heavy gasps as I ride the waves of my climax, a release that is as much spiritual as it is physical.
My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the cold floor, my head resting against the wooden surface of the bathroom sink. The pain radiates through me, a cruel comfort that numbs the chaos inside. The violence of my own actions always leaves me stunned, my breath caught in my throat. The room hums with the deafening silence of judgment—my own, God’s, or maybe both .
What have I become? The question lingers in my mind, but the answer feels elusive, almost irrelevant. Does it even matter anymore? I search for some trace of the person I once was, but all I find is a void, a hollow echo of what used to be. Not that I was something more than what I'm now. No, she took care of that but now there's no more hope. No freedom. Only pain. The pain is the only thing that feels real, the only thing that connects me to this moment.
Was it worth it? The thought claws at my mind, but I push it away. I don’t know if I can face the answer. I don’t know if I want to.