Forgive Me Father

Brooklyn’s heard every sermon Christian’s preached for years, yet the real sermons happened behind the sacristy door. Enough. She made the call, told him it was done. That should’ve been the end of it. Instead he shows up at her door with that black suit still smelling like incense. The conversation lasts maybe thirty seconds before he’s forcing her wrists behind her. Rope bites. Knots snap tight. She twists, kicks, but Christian’s stronger and he knows every inch of her. He bends her over the kitchen table, yanks her shorts down, and drives into her with one steady thrust that knocks the air out of her lungs. Every stroke is deliberate, punishing, a reminder that she belongs to the collar he wears. He spanks her hard enough to leave handprints, grips her dark hair, pulls her head back so she has to watch him take what he wants. When he’s finished inside her he doesn’t untie her right away. He leans close, breath hot on her ear, and tells her they’ll talk about leaving after she learns her place again. Brooklyn’s thighs shake. The rope holds. Outside, church bells ring like nothing’s changed.