Dove
O nce we arrive at the compound, everything happens in a blur. I'm bathed quickly and dressed in a maiden’s robe, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin. The weight of the task ahead presses down on me, but there's no time to dwell on it. It's not like I could stop it. Tonight, I’m meant to guide the maidens in their sacred duty. I must teach them how to please the seedlings, how to surrender completely to the ritual meant for conception. Most of them are virgins, unsure and unpracticed. But it's my responsibility to show them what’s expected.
As unsettling as this all is, there’s a strange relief that my partner today is Gabriel. I once cared for him deeply, even though my feelings are now twisted and complicated. Resentment and frustration churn inside me. Beneath my anger, a hint of nostalgia lingers.
I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He stands tall in his robe, his face locked in that same stern expression he always wears. It’s unsettling how calm he remains, especially knowing how possessive Gabriel is. But here, we’re nothing but puppets. To him, we’re nothing.
My mind races as I finish preparing for the ritual. We've trained for this. We know the Prophet's expectations. Yet, I can't suppress the urge to rebel against everything I've been taught. My thoughts always drift back to him—back to my need for freedom. I’m so sick of this idea of “sacred duty.” Every movement, every word, it’s all part of maintaining the act .
Gabriel catches my eye, and for a brief moment, the mask slips. I see it: the possession, the hunger. But it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving only cold indifference. We've done this before. So many times, I've grown used to the motions. Yet, I can't shake the gnawing dread tightening its grip on me. The idea of leading the maidens through this twisted ritual makes my stomach turn. I must guide them as they surrender to something so warped. To them, it’s a great honor to serve the Church of Eden. There’s no higher privilege than being chosen as a maiden. Yet, all I want is to run.
Is this really what my life will always be? The question echoes bitterly in my mind as anger simmers beneath my skin. To teach them to degrade themselves, to bow to the Prophet’s perverse demands under the guise of sacred duty. I’m part of this machine, a cog in the very thing I've grown to despise.
Gabriel brushes past me with quiet confidence, his silence heavy with meaning. He exits the room without a glance, leaving behind the weight of expectation that presses down on us all. The maidens stand in rows, their wide eyes fixed on me, waiting to be led into their so-called “sacred duty.”
I wonder what life could be like, free from these rituals and the Prophet's demands. As Gabriel takes his place, the air thickens with tension. Everyone is eager for what will come. My pulse quickens, rebellion simmering beneath. But I'm still bound by these chains.
The Elders’ guttural chant begins, a haunting hum that sends shivers down my spine. “To your command, we offer ourselves.” The maidens echo the words, “We are yours, Prophet.”
The ritual has begun.
I glance at the maidens' faces. Some are awed, some fearful. Do they dream of rebellion, or have they surrendered? I wonder but as the chants rise, a crescendo of control tightens the cult's grip. My trance breaks. "One day", I tell myself. One day, I will break free. But for now, I play my part, even as my heart aches for more. The elders arrive and escort us to the open room, where the soft hum of prayers fills the air. The space is vast, adorned with symbols of the church's twisted beliefs. The maidens kneel in a circle, their heads bowed in submission. As I enter, their eyes flicker up, wide with a mix of fear and anticipation.
I move towards Gabriel, each step echoing in the tense silence. The maidens' youth and innocence, mixed with uncertainty, heightens my fear. Their wide eyes follow us, reflecting a blend of hope and dread. I feel a knot of unease tighten in my stomach. This is a performance, a grotesque display of devotion, and my role in it is to guide them through the ritual.
We take our positions, feeling the sensation of a thousand eyes upon us. The weight of the church’s gaze presses down on me. Each member's fervent prayer mingles with the soft rustle of their robes. They pray for a successful conception. Even though I knew I wouldn't be getting pregnant, the Prophet made sure of that. When the time comes, it will be his seed that I will carry.
Gabriel stands in front of me, his sun-kissed skin peeking from loose robes draped over his strong frame. His wild dark hair frames his sharp features. Those intense hazel eyes, full of power and passion, unsettle me. Dread and attraction twist inside me as he steps closer, cupping my face. I gulp, bracing myself.
When his lips crash into mine, rough and demanding, I’m jolted from my thoughts. His touch leaves no room for resistance. His bitter resolve mixes with my fading doubt. It reminds me of his control, of this ritual, and of me. This is a test, I remind myself. I must focus on my role. A demonstration of devotion to the Prophet’s will. But the boundaries are becoming blurred. I’m losing myself in this facade.
The church members, faces lit by flickering candlelight, pray with growing intensity. Their voices rise, asking for success, purity, for the sacred act to be fulfilled. “Bless us, guide them, create Eden,” they chant, like a drumbeat. Their chanting lingers in the background. It serves as a persistent reminder of our heavy expectations.
I try to steady myself, pushing away the creeping unease that comes with being fucked while the entire compound watches. Gabriel’s hands move over me, a blend of comfort and command. His tongue slips into my mouth, deepening the kiss. He groans against my lips, the sound swallowed by the heat between us. Despite the urge to pull away, I know I have to go through with it, play my part in this public display.
For a brief moment, I open my eyes. When I glance at the kneeling maidens, their faces lit by flickering candles, I see fear in their eyes, too. I wonder if they, like me, long for something more than this twisted ritual.
The ritual's main event has started, and I’m swept up in the choreography of this twisted ceremony. Every touch, and every movement feels rehearsed, part of the disturbing spectacle playing out around us. The air is thick with devotion and anticipation. While I remain torn between my feelings and the grotesque expectations of this moment.
“Blessed be the ,” they chant as Gabriel’s hands move over me with an intimacy that feels too familiar. “Blessed be thy Lilith.”
“May she swell with the chosen,” they continue, but their prayers will never be answered.
When he cups my ass and lifts me, my legs instinctively wrap around his waist—a reflex from the past when his touch was something I once craved. For just a second, it feels like old times, when I would lose myself in him, surrendering completely. His lips move down my neck. I hate that it still sends a shiver down my spine, that my body responds despite the situation.
The weight of watching eyes pulls me from the haze, grounding me in the twisted ritual. Gabriel feels it too, his breath shifting. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my waist, his body pressing harder against mine like he’s trying to reclaim control. And instead of placing me on the altar as expected, he lowers me to the cold floor, sending a shiver through me.
He claims my lips again, hard and possessive. Mine. A clear fuck you to the Prophet. I don’t need to look to know the Prophet is scowling. My mind resists, screaming at me to stop, but my body betrays me. Heat spreads like wildfire, the ache growing, undeniable. I’m breathless, trembling.
The followers’ chanting grows louder, echoing through the compound. "Blessed be the union of flesh and spirit," they intone, voices thick with fervor. Candles flicker. Shadows twist along the walls. The scent of the incense is cloying and suffocating.
Gabriel’s hand trails down my side, teasing the bare skin beneath my robe. He pauses, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot on my lips. His eyes, dark and wild, hold a challenge—to the Prophet, the ritual, and me. Amidst the chaos, the Prophet steps forward, his voice calm yet commanding. “Let us remember the words of the Lord,” he declares, his gaze sweeping over the congregation. “And the two shall become one flesh; so they are no longer two, but one.” His words carry biblical authority, weaving the ritual into divine command.
Gabriel pulls my robe away, the cool air biting against my exposed skin and intensifying my vulnerability. His touch is deliberate as he positions himself above me, slowly pushing inside with a steady rhythm. Controlled and unforgiving. My mind spins, caught between the intense physical sensations and the emotional storm raging within. Each thrust sends shudders through me, starkly contrasting with the sea of watching faces and the fervent prayers echoing around us. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the humiliation and exposure of every intimate moment laid bare before the congregation. I long for darkness, for privacy, away from this public display.
The Prophet’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a constant drumbeat, reminding me of the role I’m trapped in. “Let us not forget the purpose of this sacred union,” he declares with an authority that leaves no room for resistance. The lies fall from his mouth. “For God said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ As Lilith, must fulfill this sacred duty.”
Every word from the Prophet feels like a chain tightening around me, locking me into this role I can’t escape. His gaze pins me down, like he can sense the chaos inside.
Gabriel leans in, his breath hot against my ear, voice rough with lust. “You feel that, Marisol? That’s me claiming what’s mine. Every inch of you, every sound you make, belongs to me.” His words send a shiver down my spine, an unsettling mix of dominance and desire twisting in my gut.
His hands grip my hips tighter, pulling me against him with every thrust. “Do you like it?” he growls. “Knowing this is exactly where you belong, do you like me filling you? Beneath me, taking everything I give you.” He’s not asking for consent—he’s demanding my submission because my answer doesn’t even matter.
I bite my lip, the taste of blood mixing with the bitterness of my shame. Yet, my body betrays me, arching into him, desperate, giving him what I shouldn’t.
Alex’s face flashes in my mind—the way his eyes lingered on me, how his hunger mirrored mine. How can I think of him now, when my body is betraying me so completely? Even as Gabriel claims me with every thrust, it’s Alex I’m thinking about. What if it were his hands on me, his voice whispering sinful things in my ear?
Shame floods me, but it’s too late.
I’m not supposed to want Alex, not when my duty is to Gabriel, to the Prophet, to God. But the fantasy grips me, blurring into the reality of Gabriel's body against mine.
“You were made for this,” Gabriel continues, his voice heavy with authority. “Made to fuck, to breed, to bring forth the Prophet’s will. And you’re going to give it to me, Marisol. You’re going to give me everything.”
The words reverberate through me, sinking deep into the parts of me I try to deny. There’s no escape from this, from the reality of who I am. As Gabriel pushes me closer to the edge, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if it were Alex pushing me over. Would his touch be gentler? Would he whisper my name with reverence instead of demand?
The Prophet’s voice cuts through, cold and unyielding. “If you’re found worthy, Gabriel, a child shall bloom within her, a blessing on our tradition.” His words mock Gabriel's rough thrusts into me. Each one blurs the line between sacred and profane. I feel Gabriel's cock jerk inside me, his movements growing erratic, desperate to claim me completely.
“Tell me you need this,” Gabriel demands, his voice a harsh rasp. “Tell me you need me inside you, filling you up, making you whole.” His breath hitches as he thrusts harder, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. “Say it, Marisol. Say you’re mine.” He whispers amongst the chants.
The words choke in my throat, caught between the desire to scream and the instinct to submit. But Gabriel doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand snakes around my throat, just enough to send a rush of heat through me, and his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You’re mine, Marisol. Body and soul. And you’re going to carry my child, a gift to the Prophet himself.”
The weight of his claim suffocates me, but the twisted part of me, molded by this life, finds a sick sense of satisfaction in it. I am nothing more than a vessel—a vessel for Gabriel, for the Prophet. I should be honored. Gabriel’s thrusts become frenzied; his grip unrelenting as he chases his release. “I’m going to fill you up, Marisol. You’re going to take all of me, every last drop. And you’re going to love it. ”
I bite my lip, the metallic taste of blood sharp. I want to detach, to escape this public humiliation, but the congregation's prayers anchor me beneath Gabriel's weight. His movements are precise, each thrust punctuating the Prophet’s sermon. My body responds out of habit, the line between pain and pleasure blurring until they merge. The slickness between my thighs is evidence of Gabriel's control and my own betrayal.
I hate myself for it, for the way my body complies even as my mind rebels.
Each thrust drives me further away from myself, mingling with the Prophet’s twisted liturgy. The prayers grow louder, drowning out my ragged breathing. Gabriel’s grip on my thighs tightens as he drives into me harder, faster. My back arches, my nails clawing at his back, trying to hold onto some control.
There’s no control, only surrender to the Prophet’s will, the congregation's demands, and the burning ache in my core. Gabriel’s name slips from my lips, a plea or a curse—I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed, dragged into darkness where escape seems impossible.
What would Alex say if he knew? Would he still want me if he knew how I’ve been used and broken?
Tension coils in my belly, snapping as I’m thrown into the abyss. My vision blurs with the force of the orgasm, my body shaking with it. Gabriel grunts above me, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his release, pinning me down, his mouth capturing my cries.
I should be happy. The Prophet will be pleased, and Gabriel will be elevated. But all I can think about is Alex—his hands, his lips, his voice whispering my name like a prayer.
I’m drowning in conflicting emotions, the elation of release tainted by guilt and shame. Gabriel’s movements slow as he finds his own release, sealing the ritual with his seed. As he pulls away, the Prophet’s final benediction echoes in my mind, a knife twisting in the wound. The prayers fade, the congregation disperses, leaving me exposed and trembling. Even now, it’s not Gabriel’s touch that lingers, but the forbidden thought of Alex—a desire I can’t act on but can’t ignore.
I’m a sinner. And for him, I’d sin a thousand times over.
The room slowly empties, the echoes of the Prophet’s words still hanging in the air as the maidens follow the seedlings to the conception quarters. The ritual is complete, but the lingering tension clings to the walls like a suffocating fog. I prepare to leave, to cleanse myself of what has just transpired, but a sense of unease prickles at the back of my neck.
Then I see her—a maiden still sitting in the room, her posture tense, hands clasped in her lap. My heart stutters in my chest. She shouldn’t be here. The Prophet won’t be pleased if he finds her still here. She knows what happens when he isn’t happy. She’ll be punished… or worse.
I take a hesitant step toward her, intending to urge her to leave, but something in the way she lifts her face and meets my gaze stops me. Her blue eyes—so vivid, so full of life—are brimming with something other than submission. I feel a pang of something I can’t quite name as I stare into them. Desperation? Fear?
No. It’s something deeper—something I recognize but have tried so hard to bury. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want the life that’s been laid out for her. It’s a feeling I know all too well, one that gnaws at me every time I close my eyes, but that I’ve buried deep inside, smothered by years of conditioning, of duty, of fear .
But instead of offering her comfort, instead of reaching out, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, cold and distant, telling me to accept it, to embrace my role. “This is your path, Marisol. There is no other.” The words have been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what it meant to belong to the Prophet, to the congregation. To Gabriel.
“Just accept it,” I whisper, my voice hollow even to my own ears. The words hang in the air, heavy and meaningless, as I turn away, the weight of my own sins pressing down on me. I can feel Gabriel’s cum trickling down my thighs, a sticky, shameful reminder of what I’ve just endured—and of what she will endure, too.
“No.” Her voice is a soft but firm refusal, and it stops me dead in my tracks. I turn back to her, stunned by her defiance. She stands up slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “I can’t… I won’t.” There’s a quiver in her voice, but there’s also resolve—something I’ve long forgotten how to summon in myself.
“You don’t understand,” I say, trying to keep my tone even, though my own fear is creeping into my words. “The Prophet… he won’t tolerate disobedience. If you don’t… if you don’t follow the path, he’ll—” I don’t finish the sentence. I can’t. The horrors that await her if she continues to defy her role are too terrible to speak aloud. Women here remain in their place, quiet, honorable and breedable. Nothing more nothing less.
“I don’t care,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “I’d rather die than live like this. Like a whore. To be fucked and bred until I die.” Her words hit me like a blow to the chest, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. Would I have said the same, if I had known then what I know now? If I had known the true cost of submission, of obedience?
“Don’t say that,” I hiss, taking a step closer, the urgency in my voice betraying the panic rising within me. “You don’t mean it. You don’t know what you’re saying. You have to do what they tell you—there’s no other way. You have to— ”
“Have to?” she cuts me off, her eyes narrowing. “Like you? Like all of us? Is this what you want, Marisol? Is this the life you chose?”
Her words slice through me, sharper than any blade. I want to lash out, to tell her she doesn’t understand, that this isn’t about what we want, but about what we must do. But the words die in my throat because a part of me knows she’s right. A part of me wants to scream that no, this isn’t the life I chose—that it was forced upon me, just as it’s being forced upon her.
“I don’t want this,” I finally whisper, the admission burning on my tongue like poison. “But what choice do we have? What choice did I have?”
She steps closer, her expression softening. “We always have a choice, Marisol. Even if it’s not the one we want.”
I shake my head, backing away from her. “You don’t understand. You’re too young, too new. You haven’t seen what they do to those who resist, who refuse. It’s not a choice—it’s survival. And if you don’t submit… if you don’t obey, you won’t survive.”
“And what kind of survival is this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, but it rings loud and clear in my ears. “Living like this—trapped, used, broken? I’d rather die fighting than live on my knees.”
Her words make my heart clench painfully in my chest. She’s right. She’s so right it hurts. But I can’t let her see that. I can’t let her know that her defiance is making cracks in the wall I’ve built around my heart.
“Please,” I plead, my voice trembling. “Don’t do this. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can fight them. You can’t. They’ll crush you. They’ll break you.”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then, finally, she nods, but I can see in her gaze that she hasn’t given up. “Maybe they will,” she says softly, “but I’ll never stop fighting. And neither should you. ”
The words linger in the air as I turn and hurry out of the room, her defiance echoing in my ears. My legs stick together as I walk, the remnants of Gabriel’s cum a vile reminder of my submission, of my failure. She’s stronger than me, I realize with a bitter pang of envy. She hasn’t been broken yet.
As I leave her behind, her words continue to haunt me. “Neither should you.” But I can’t fight, can I? I’ve already been claimed. I’ve already surrendered. What hope is there left for someone like me?