Chapter 14 #3
But then both his palms settle on my hips—grounding, steadying.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Ready?"
I press my forehead harder against the wood.
Close my eyes.
"Yes, my Saint."
CRACK.
The strike detonates across my right cheek, and I shoot straight into a place that isn't quite reality anymore.
My mouth opens.
Words come out.
"One—I am held—"
But I'm not the one saying them.
I'm floating somewhere above my body, watching myself kneel in this sex chapel, watching my lips move, watching my fingers dig into the prayer desk—
CRACK.
"Two—I am seen—"
The pain is there—sharp and burning and impossible to ignore—but it's also not there, like I'm experiencing it through layers of gauze, distant and muffled.
What the fuck is happening—
CRACK.
"Three—I am forgiven—"
My brain lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, synapses firing in patterns that don't make sense, endorphins flooding my system in waves that crash over me, pulling me under.
I'm drowning.
I'm flying.
I'm completely, utterly gone.
CRACK.
"Four—I am yours—"
Somewhere in the back of my consciousness, a tiny voice is screaming that this is subspace, that I've dropped hard and fast, that I need to be careful—
But I can't grab onto that thought.
It slips through my mental fingers like smoke.
CRACK.
"Five—I am held—"
The words keep coming.
My body keeps praying.
But I'm not there anymore.
I'm living on some other planet where pain and pleasure blur together, where Saint Lorcan's voice is the only thing tethering me to earth, where the rhythm of strike-count-pray becomes a mantra that drowns out everything else.
CRACK.
"Six—I am seen—"
Time stops making sense.
I lose minutes. Hours. Seconds.
I don't know.
I just know that my voice keeps working, keeps praying, keeps counting—
CRACK.
"Seven—I am forgiven—"
—and Saint Lorcan's hands keep touching me between strikes, grounding me, reminding me I'm real—
CRACK.
My ass is burning, burning, every nerve ending screaming.
CRACK.
But I'm also so wet I can feel it dripping down my thighs.
CRACK.
And my brain is static and light and nothing.
CRACK.
And I'm crying but I don't remember starting.
CRACK.
"Twelve—I am yours—" And the prayer is the only thing holding me together—
CRACK.
The only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.
CRACK.
And Saint Lorcan's voice cuts through the haze. "Almost there, luv. Three more. You're doin' so well."
CRACK.
CRACK.
One more.
Just one more.
CRACK.
"Seventeen—I am held—"
The words fall from my lips.
And then—silence.
No more strikes.
No more pain.
Just Saint Lorcan's hands on my hips, holding me steady while I shake apart.
"Ah, there ya are," he murmurs, voice low and reverent. "It's done now, a stór. The penance is complete. Ya did it—all seventeen, counted perfectly. Such a good girl. Such a brave, beautiful girl."
His palms slide slowly up my trembling back, fingers splayed wide, tracing the curve of my spine like he's reading braille, like my body is scripture he's memorizing. Over my shoulders, down the length of my arms, his touch deliberate and grounding.
Petting me.
Soothing me.
Worshiping me.
Anchoring me back to reality one stroke at a time.
"So proud of ya," he whispers. "You took every strike. Counted perfectly. Prayed so beautifully."
I'm gasping into the prayer desk, my whole body wrung out and trembling, but—I did it. I actually fucking did it.
Seventeen strikes. Seventeen prayers. No resets.
Saint Lorcan's hands cup my face, tilting my head up gently so I'm looking back at him over my shoulder.
His gray eyes are soft. Warm.
Proud.
"Are ya ready for your absolution, luv?"
I blink at him through tears, my brain still half-dissolved, trying to process what that means.
Absolution.
If that means what I think it means—if absolution is his word for what comes next, for release, and reward, and that final benediction that will shatter the last brittle pieces of me holding on—then fuck yes, I'm ready!
My body is already saying yes before my brain can catch up, hips shifting restlessly despite the burn, despite the exhaustion, despite everything.
I want it.
Whatever he's offering, whatever comes next in this twisted liturgy we're performing together.
I want all of it.
My pussy clenches involuntarily, and I know—I know—that whatever he's about to do to me is going to wreck me in entirely new ways.
But also—
My ass is literally on fire.
I'm crying.
I just prayed my way through the most intense spanking of my entire life.
And I'm happy.
Like, genuinely, inexplicably happy.
Which is absolutely fucked up and also somehow exactly right.
A broken laugh bubbles out of me.
"What is it, lass?" Saint Lorcan asks, thumbs stroking my cheeks.
I let out another wet, shaky laugh.
"I just—" My voice cracks. "I just survived Catholic BDSM boot camp and now you're about to give me your blessing, and I don't know if that means I'm going to heaven or hell but honestly at this point I'll take either."
Saint Lorcan's mouth curves into a small, genuine smile.
"Aye, beloved," he murmurs. "You'll take both."