Sinner
O nce I finish my punishment, I shower and prepare for the day ahead. Slipping into dark blue jeans and a black henley long sleeve, I know I will probably die from the heat, but I can’t expose my tattoos that could make me stand out. I need to get close enough to Victor; after all, he’s the only reason I came into town earlier than planned—to watch him. In a small town like Taos, where everyone knows everyone, I have to make sure I’m not discovered before I’m ready to strike.
I step out of the room, leave the hotel, and head into the hot, sunny day. As I walk toward the small-town square where the market is held, I feel the dry dust under my boots and the weight of the sun on my back. The air is thick with the aroma of baked bread, fresh fruit, and spices. The chatter of vendors hawking their wares and the laughter of children at play create an enticing cacophony. My eyes scan the market, searching for Victor and his little dove. And then, as if God himself has ordained this moment, I spot them.
There’s no mistaking it—it’s her. The woman who has consumed my every thought since I first saw her picture. Ebony curls cascading to her waist, golden skin glowing like something divine. Those dark, secretive eyes, those plump, irresistible lips… My blood surges south. She’s pure yet sinful. An angel—no, my angel. The sight of her stirs something twisted in me, a mix of reverence and lust. I’m obsessed. She was made for me, only for me. God must be cruel, placing this temptation in my path. I want to worship her and defile her, to make her mine until her innocence is just a memory. My angel, my sinner. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was destined to be the object of my darkest desires. I can’t look away, knowing this is just the beginning.
And there's Victor, standing beside her. Marisol’s father. A demon in plain daylight. His hand rests on the small of her back as she pauses to smell the sunflowers. Her eyes light up as she brings the flowers to her button nose, inhaling their scent. The white dress clings to her small, perky breasts and flaunts her thin waist, doing absolutely nothing to hide that round ass.
My pulse quickens, and my chest tightens. I force myself to swallow the bitterness that rises in my throat. The jealousy flows through me as I watch Victor leaning into whisper something in her ear, his eyes glinting wickedly in the midday sun. Marisol giggles—a sound so light and pure, it feels sacrilegious coming from a sinner like her. But I wanted more of that. I wanted to hear that beautiful sound come out of her. I continue to follow at a distance as they move from vendor to vendor, his hand firm on her back.
For her to be his daughter, he’s oddly possessive of her. But with a woman who looks like that, who wouldn’t be? But that’s her father, and that is wrong. An abomination. Still, I can’t help but be curious about their dynamic. He treats her more like a partner than a daughter. The townspeople don’t seem to notice, so maybe this behavior is normal. When his hand slides down to cup her peach-shaped ass, my teeth grind so hard I feel the pressure in my jaw. Mine. A wave of possessiveness surges through me, and all I want to do is pummel his face in for touching her. For touching what’s mine. She might not know I exist, but I know she does, and that's all that matters. Mine. The sight twists something dark and sick in my gut. It’s not right. It isn’t . How can no one see this? Marisol doesn’t flinch; instead, she continues to interact with the vendors, her laughter ringing out in the square, light and infectious. I keep my head tipped low, trying to avoid notice, sweat trickling down my forehead as I watch this grotesque display of sin. As a stranger approaches Victor, who stands outside the bookstore, Marisol is left alone momentarily while she browses for books. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I move closer to her.
I weave my way through the milling crowd, sidestepping street urchins playing with sticks, a couple haggling over the price of a clay pot, and an old woman counting her earnings for the day. I feel the eyes of others on me, but they quickly avert their gaze to more mundane matters .
Ahead, I spot the entrance to the bookstore, its wooden sign creaking softly in the breeze. The scent of old paper and ink beckons me inside, and I step over the threshold, immediately enveloped in the comforting quiet. The soft glow of afternoon light filters through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the rows of bookshelves.
I see her almost immediately. She stands near the back of the shop, carefully selecting a book, her fingers delicately tracing the spine as if it were made of glass. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she settles on one, flipping it open to read the first few lines. My heart hammers loudly in my chest, the sound echoing in my ears as I listen to her read aloud, “Love is the greatest curse of them all, angel, and I’ve been cursed.” Her voice is a smooth melody, laced with longing and a tinge of sadness. Suddenly, I find myself wishing to be that book in her hands, to feel her touch upon me, to hear her voice reading my lines. It’s an irrational thought—one born out of desire.
“Love,” she whispers, closing the book and placing it back on the shelf. She moves down the romance section, browsing books and reading the backs of a few. Nothing seems to catch her attention as she places each book back where it belongs. Then she picks up another book, one I am very familiar with—an erotica. Opening the book, she lands on a random page and reads, “I am going to eat your pussy now, little traitor, and make you cry out my name.” She gasps, her face flushing a deep crimson as she reads the explicit line, her hands instinctively clapping the book shut. It’s a stark contrast to the previous book she held with such tenderness, and yet I find myself longing even more intensely. I want to be that outrageous line that shocks her into silence, that flushes her delicate skin, and provokes such a raw, unexpected response.
She nervously glances around the bookstore, ensuring she’s still alone, before opening the book again. A smirk plays on her lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she skims through another page—the forbidden love story of a priest and a nun. A book I’ve read many times before and pleasured myself too .
The unexpected thought slips into my mind, unbidden, and a heavy heat flares in my cheeks. I’m embarrassed by my own thoughts, by my own desires. But as I watch her continue to read the illicit tale—her lips faintly moving, her brow creasing in concentration, and her delicate fingers caressing the spine—I picture her caressing my skin, her naked reading that book while I feast on her cunt.
Her white cotton dress, simple yet elegant, drapes softly against her body, ending just above her knees. The fabric clings to her in the right places, accentuating her curves, while the exposed shoulders reveal smooth, sun-kissed skin. Her dark, wild coils are loose, cascading down her back like a waterfall, framing her face in a way that makes her look both innocent and alluring. I take a step closer, the floorboards creaking underfoot, but she doesn’t notice—too engrossed in the words that stir her deepest desires.
A flush of desire sweeps over me, and even in the chilly bookstore, I find myself sweating slightly. My skin prickles with heat, an uncomfortable contrast to the cool air around me. I look down, trying to bury myself in the book I’m supposed to be reading. But the words blur into an incomprehensible haze, dissolving into the background as my thoughts circle around her.
I can’t focus on the words. All I see is her—her delicate fingers flipping through pages, her eyes absorbed in the forbidden love story between a priest and a nun. She’s lost in a world where desire and sin intertwine, and her fascination is a magnetic force pulling me closer.
I try to steady my breathing, but my gaze drifts back to her. Her lips move slightly as she reads, and I long to hear the words she’s silently reciting, to know the moment the story pushes her to the edge.
The world fades, the bustling marketplace outside a distant hum. All that remains is the quiet rustle of pages and her intoxicating presence. With a mix of shame and yearning, I realize I’m not just watching her—I’m longing to be part of the story she’s so entranced by .
I watch as she abandons the book, her face flushed once again. She wanders to another section of the bookstore, this one filled with adventure tales and horror stories. But none of them seem to catch her interest. Closing the book in my hands, I diminish the distance between us. I want—no, I need—to talk to her, and so I do.
“That’s a good choice,” I say, pointing at the gothic horror novel in her hand. Marisol smiles. “I’m not sure if I can stomach horror.” Interestingly, the little killer can't stomach horror, yet she can take a life without flinching. A true little sinner, just like her father—an angel of death wrapped in innocence. The file told me everything about the church rituals, the blood her hands are stained with. But horror? That's where she draws the line.
What kind of game is she playing?
Needless to say, I’m hooked.
“Well,” I murmur, leaning in, “I could suggest something lighter—perhaps romance. Forbidden. Sinful Love —a taboo story about a priest and a nun.”
She blinks, caught off guard. It’s the book she had just been engrossed in, and I can see a flicker of surprise in her eyes. However, she quickly composes herself, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
“Sounds interesting,” she says, her tone casual, her eyes giving nothing away. “You’ve read it?” she asks, her voice a whisper of disbelief.
I nod, a devilish grin playing on my lips as her gaze flickers back to the book she abandoned moments ago.
“Yes,” I reply. “Tons of twists and turns. A little forbidden.”
“Twists and turns, huh?” She raises an eyebrow, giving the book in her hand a speculative look. Judging by how my little sinner carries herself and dresses, this book might be too R-rated for her taste. I feel it’s only fair to warn her. “It’s dark and sinful. You sure it’s not too… sinful, too dark for you, princesa ?”
She pauses, her eyes lingering on mine for just a moment longer, the corners of her lips curling into a coy smile. “I suppose I can handle a bit of sin,” she says, her voice laced with subtle flirtation. But even as the words leave her lips, I can see her mind drifting elsewhere, her gaze slipping away from mine.
I extend my hand with a grin. “I’m Alex, by the way. And if you can handle a bit of sin, you might just be in for an interesting read.”
She takes my hand, her touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary. “Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Marisol,” she says, her voice a mix of warmth and distance.
Before I can think of what to say next, she’s already moving on. “I should get going. Have a good day,” she adds quickly, pulling her hand away from mine as if the contact burns. There’s something in her eyes—an urgency, maybe even a trace of regret—as she turns and walks briskly toward another part of the bookstore.
I stand there, rooted in place, my hand still tingling from where hers had been. What just happened? Her name, Marisol, echoes in my mind, her voice still lingering in the air like a song I can’t forget. My thoughts whirl, trying to make sense of the brief encounter, trying to understand why I feel this overwhelming need to follow her, to keep her in my sight.
Before I can decide what to do, Victor reappears, striding over to her with an easy confidence that makes my skin crawl. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and presses a kiss to her forehead. From a distance, it might seem like a tender gesture, but I don’t miss the way she stiffens, the slight recoil of her body as his fingers brush against her exposed skin. She smiles, but it’s forced, her eyes betraying the unease she tries to hide .
What’s really going on here? My gut twists with suspicion, the possessive urge to protect her flaring up again. They exit the shop together, not buying a single thing, but I’m not done with her—not yet. I refuse to let this be the last time I see her.
I grab the three books she had been drawn to, holding them like fragile pieces of her. As I pay and exit the store, I spot them walking toward a small adobe house. My heart pounds with each step as I trail them, my mind racing with possibilities. Who is she, really? And why am I so obsessed with a woman I don't even know?
The sun blazes down on the dusty street, but all I can see is Marisol—her smile, her hesitation, her fear. And as I follow them, I make a silent promise to myself: She will be mine.
I hang back, half-hidden in the shadowy nook of a confectionery shop across the street. The words of Sinful Love echo in my mind as I watch them. The disquiet in Marisol’s eyes, even from this distance, speaks volumes—repulsion mixed with resignation. I see her tense as Victor’s hand settles on the small of her back, his fingers digging into her hips. He wants her, and if this is affection, it’s possessive, suffocating.
The look on Marisol’s face is unmistakable—she’d rather be anywhere else. God, I want her anywhere else too, preferably with me, in my bed, away from him. Her eyes dart in my direction as if she can sense me watching, but I’m hidden from view. She casts one final, almost pleading look my way before they enter a house, greeted by a younger woman dressed in white from head to toe and a man in a cheap church suit.
What the hell is she walking into? The thought gnaws at me, twisting my gut. She should be with me. The possessiveness, the need to protect her, burns like a fire in my chest, but all I can do is watch, helpless as they disappear inside. But not for long, I promise myself. I’ll get her out of this. She’ll be mine, and I’ll keep her safe.
I creep around the house, searching for a vantage point until I finally find one. Inside, the woman in full covering meticulously measures Marisol while the other man, clutching a Bible, prays over her. Victor, now dressed in a white robe, sits on a couch, legs crossed and his gaze never leaving her. I’m baffled by what I’m seeing, but Marisol’s dissociation is unmistakable. She’s checked out, gone somewhere deep within herself as the man in front of her tugs at the lace of her dress. The white fabric slips off her shoulder, exposing her bare skin. The woman steps aside, handing Victor a paper with the measurements. What the fuck is going on here?
The younger man, still reciting verses, cups Marisol’s breast with a sickening reverence. His voice is calm, almost soothing as he continues, “But I would have you without carefulness. He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord.”
Victor nods in approval, his eyes dark with something twisted. “Our Lord demands purity, obedience, and sacrifice. We cleanse our bodies to prepare for the Lord’s work. Marisol, you are chosen to lead us, to be the vessel through which the Lord speaks.”
Fucking cult, I think, my blood running cold. They’re brainwashing her, twisting Marisol into some kind of prophetess. My heart pounds, a mix of rage and fear clawing at me. I want to break through the window, rip her away from them, and burn everything to the ground. But I’m frozen, helpless, forced to watch as the horror unfolds. Watching the workings of their Dove. The man continues, his hand still on her breast, “You are the daughter of Lilith, the mother of all living, the vessel of God’s will. Through you, we shall be redeemed.”
No, I think, the word a silent scream in my mind. They can’t have her. She’s mine, not theirs. Mine to protect, to hold, to claim. But she’s standing there, motionless, her mind a million miles away while they continue their twisted ritual.
Victor’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding. “We must ensure that our flesh is pure, that our desires align with the will of the Lord. Only then can we be free of sin. ”
This is insane. They’re using her, twisting everything she is, everything she could be. My fists clench at my sides, the need to act almost overwhelming. But I can’t yet. Not without a plan. Hold on, Marisol. I’m coming for you. Just hold on.
As Marisol’s father finishes the verse, he rises from the couch. His eyes lock onto her with an expression I can’t quite decipher—a mix of pride, but there’s something else, something darker. A look of hunger, as if he already knows how this will play out. She is his.
He walks over to her, places a hand on her shoulder, and dips his chin slowly before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. The woman in the corner remains, staring down at the floor.
Suddenly, my stomach churns as a veil of realization descends upon me. Marisol is going to be raped. Confusion floods my mind, and every instinct screams at me to burst into that room and take her away. But I’m paralyzed, gripped by a twisted sense of resignation as I stand there, watching.
The man continues to caress her breast. “Bless me, Dove. Daughter of Lilith, daughter of Adam,” he murmurs as he begins to kiss her. Marisol remains frozen, her body rigid as he slides the dress off her shoulders, leaving her completely naked. My cock instantly hardens at the sight of her exposed skin, her curves laid bare. It’s fucked up, but what can I say? I can’t tear my eyes away, even as a twisted sense of guilt gnaws at me. I should be disgusted, horrified even, but instead, I’m rock hard. It’s wrong . So wrong . But that doesn’t stop the hunger building inside me.
The man kneels in front of her, burying his face between her legs, his tongue desecrating her. Marisol doesn’t flinch; her eyes are fixed on some distant, indifferent point. She’s somewhere else, dissociated from the horror unfolding around her. I don’t blame her—how could I? But it’s okay. I’m here now. I’ll save her, erase their filthy touch, and make them all pay for what they’ve done .
The man reaches out, his hand beckoning the woman standing silently in the corner. He pulls his face away from Marisol’s body, his breath heavy with sick desire. “Bless us, wife,” he moans, his voice dripping with twisted reverence. The woman begins to sing, her voice rising in a haunting, hollow hymn that fills the room with a chilling, malevolent energy:
“O shadows of the night, hear our plea,
From darkness, we seek what shall set us free.
With flesh and sin, we mark the rite,
Invoke the abyss, embrace the night.”
As the woman’s voice echoes through the room, the door creaks open. Six figures in hooded robes step inside, their faces concealed by the darkness. They move with a silent, predatory grace, forming a circle around Marisol. The air grows thick with their oppressive presence. Their voices join in the eerie chant, a grotesque hymn that resonates with a dark and sinister rhythm:
“Through sin and shadow, we claim our right,
Embrace the void, surrender to the night.
In corruption’s name, we find our way,
Purity through desecration, in darkness we stay.”
One by one, the men kneel before Marisol, each taking their turn as if performing some twisted rite. She’s distant, her mind far from the horror unfolding around her.
When they finish, they stand. Their sick anticipation hangs in the air. Their exposed hard cocks are ready for the next act of depravity. Numb and conditioned to this nightmare, Marisol starts to kneel. Her body is on autopilot, preparing to meet their depraved expectations. But before she can, Victor steps forward, commanding the room into silence. His presence is suffocating, his authority undeniable as he pulls off his hood.
“I am the Prophet. My daughter is the reincarnation of Lilith,” Victor announces. His voice drips with a self-righteous conviction. “In this life, she must atone for the original sin to cleanse us all.”
The men raise their hands in unison, chanting, “Praise be.” Their voices are cold and robotic. They fill the room with an eerie, suffocating weight. Marisol prepares for her grim task. She opens her mouth as the men take turns. Each thrust into her, as if it were a grotesque ritual. No one dares touch her beyond that, as though they've sanctified her suffering. Each man finishes on her skin, anointing her like some corrupted sacrament.
Victor watches with pride. His gaze, fixed on her, is as if overseeing a holy prophecy's fulfillment.
Rage surges through me, hot and relentless, barely contained. I’m going to kill them all—slowly—and I’ll savor every second of it. The ritual drags on, feeling endless. Marisol remains, her body enduring their desecration, her mind lost in the abyss. To them, this is “God's work.” To her, it’s another layer of hell. But I’ll make sure this is the last time they lay their hands on her.
Victor steps forward, placing his hands on her head, praying over her like she’s some sacred offering. “You are the Dove, the pure vessel through which the Lord’s will is done. We honor you, Marisol, chosen by God, cleansed of sin.”
You fucking hypocrite, I think, my teeth grinding together. You’ll pay for this. They all will.
As the men begin to file out of the room, Victor bends down, gently helping Marisol to her feet. She’s still naked, still detached, her eyes vacant as they walk out together. I follow them, my every instinct screaming to act, to end this madness, but I hold back, biding my time.
They head toward the backyard, where a small, stagnant body of water waits like a dark omen. Incense fills the air, thick and pungent, as Marisol walks toward the water, her steps slow and deliberate. The men chant behind her, their voices a low, menacing hum.
“Daughter of Lilith, cleanse yourself in the waters of rebirth. Let the sins of this world be washed away, so you may rise pure in the eyes of the Lord,” they intone, their words a sickening mockery of faith.
Marisol holds her head high, her face a mask of cold resolve as she steps into the water. It’s almost as if she’s walking to her execution, but there’s a strength in her posture that ignites something inside me. She disappears beneath the surface, swallowed by the murky depths, and for a full minute, there’s nothing. Just the silence and the thick, choking smoke of incense.
This isn’t right. None of this is right. My heart pounds in my chest, the urge to dive in after her nearly overwhelming. Come on, Marisol. Fight. Don’t let them break you.
Then, with a gasp, she emerges, her body trembling as she sucks in air. The men raise their hands, praising her like she’s been reborn. “Praise be! The Dove has been cleansed, purified in the holy waters. She is now free of sin, a true servant of the Lord.”
Bastards. The word burns in my mind as I watch them, the desire to rip them apart clawing at me. They don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.
The woman from before approaches Marisol, wrapping a robe around her, covering her body like she’s something precious. Together, they turn away from the water, the others falling silent as they retreat back into the house .
Soon, I promise myself, the anger coiling tighter within me. Soon, this will all be over. I’ll make sure of it. I will bring hellfire to their very doorstep. They will all die. Slow and painful.