As I spoke, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, so when she left in the middle, I knew. I’ve had people fall asleep or ignore me to mess around on their phones during my sermons before, but I’ve never had someone pick up and just leave altogether. I was insulted. My pride was bruised. I watched her light up a cigarette, then run across the street toward the apartment buildings a few houses down.
I felt cheated, but what’s more, I felt like a failure.
I spent a good part of the day sulking over her actions. I couldn’t focus, so I decided to call it an early night. I locked up the church and walked over to the house provided to me by the church that sits right next door. After dinner, I grabbed my Bible and took a seat on the front porch for a little prayer and reflection. And that’s when I saw her again. She was wearing even less clothing as she sauntered down the street.
I didn’t think.
I acted.
I followed behind her from a distance until we came to a seedy club. I watched as she partied hard, taking drugs and drinking alcohol. I observed with disappointment and rage as she rubbed her body against her friend and those men. I wanted to yank her away, but I couldn’t do more than just watch.
It was almost too much to take, but I held strong and remained a silent observer. I witnessed as she let that man defile her in the bathroom, then dismiss her like she didn’t even matter. I heard him joke about her to his friends. Even then I didn’t act, despite my anger increasing and my fisted hands urging me to approach him to defend her honor. Luckily, she left after that. It was the distraction I needed to escape that sinful cesspool to follow my girl.
I followed to make sure she made it home safely, then I went after her inside.
Lord, what have I done?
Chapter Four
Noah
“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” Proverbs 16:9 NIV
My fingers dust over the keyboard of my laptop. I know what I want to say, but I can’t seem to come up with the words I need to say it. I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for hours, and all I’ve managed was to type was half a sentence that leads to absolute nowhere.
“Our faith is tested daily in order to...”
In order to what? What exactly can I say that is relatable, but inspires? How do I preach this message without becoming a complete hypocrite? How do I lead my flock to handle their trials of faith, by steering them onto a righteous path, when there’s a girl being held captive in my church basement? When the last time I found myself in a tempting situation, I chose to react selfishly and driven by anger?
I touch the pads of my fingers back down on the keyboard again, but new words still refuse to appear.
I’m too distracted.
All I can think about is her. She’s all I’ve been able to think about for the last forty-eight hours. I’ve not been able to perform a single one of my duties as pastor, because all my energy is spent worrying about her. I’ve rushed through all my counseling sessions with others, not giving them the real attention they needed. The attention they deserved. I’m incapable. I’m a total fraud. I’m obsessed to the point that I’ve slept in my office the past two nights. Not that I’ve been able to get even a single wink of sleep.
I've created a situation I can’t see a way out of. I know this can only end badly. There are so many other paths I could have taken. This isn’t anywhere close to the Lord’s way.
I know exactly why I did it. I wanted to save her, but that’s not my sole purpose. I will not lie to myself. I want so much more, not only to save her. I want her. Her creamy skin, her hair, her curves, her lips. She’s everything I could ever dream of having. She’s beautiful and intriguing; the very definition of sin. Everything about her makes me want to act in a wicked and sinful manner. She’s the worst possible temptation for a man of my position.
Shaking my head, I try to veer my thoughts away from her and back toward my computer screen one last time. I see the sky growing dark through the small window in the corner, which means I’ve been at this for more than a couple hours. I’ve been at this most of the day. I place my fingers on the keys, knowing it’s a wasted effort even before the cool plastic buttons are able to heat beneath my touch. Letting out a heavy sigh, I slap my hands down hard on the keyboard, creating a whole slew of letters to skate across the screen. I push back roughly, sending my office chair away from the desk, sending my chair back until it hits the bookcase behind me. Jumping up, I bring my fingers through my hair and yank aggressively. I pull my hair until it hurts.
It pisses me off that I can’t focus on anything but her and this situation I’ve put us in. I would love to put this all on her. I would love to say she started it, that she forced my hand, but I know better. I’m in a position of power. I’m supposed to lead by example. How can I lead her, when I don’t know how without succumbing to my own desires? She’s dangerous, even if she’s not trying to be. She make me want to play the predator. Every primal instinct I have is fully alert and aware of all the things I want to do to her.
I pace my office for several minutes. I walk back and forth in circles until I fear that one more pass of my foot across the carpet will ignite a spark and burn the entire place down. I need some fresh air. I’m not doing myself any favors by staying cooped up inside this office, and I’m not getting anywhere with my sermon. It’ll have to wait until later.
I leave my office, closing the door securely behind me, and walk out into the chapel. I slow my pace as I try to take in the energy from this place. The way the sun filters through the stained glass windows, it’s ethereal, angelic. This is where God shines the brightest. This is my happy place. I close my eyes and take in deep breaths, trying to pull what I can from this holy place. It’s usually enough to keep me centered, but today it barely manages to ease my panic. I start to feel slightly calmer the longer I try to soak it all in, but it’s not close to enough. This place reminds me every day why I am here, what my purpose truly is, but today it just disappears behind thoughts of her.
Instead of walking outside for air, I turn to the left and head straight for the stairs leading to the downstairs. Fresh air isn’t going to do me any good right now. I need to see her.
I make my way all the way down and to the back corner. I move the wood panel aside, stick the key in the lock, and twist until I hear the soft click. I slowly open the door inward and warily walk inside, listening on bated breath, trying to figure out her exact position on the other side.
Stepping inside, I’m suddenly slapped in the face by the stench. The smell of sweat, vomit, and piss fills my senses, and guilt sweeps throughout my body. I find her huddled in the corner of the room. She assesses me with tear-stained cheeks, and a wild and desperate look in her eyes. She’s terrified. She looks like hell.
I did this to her.
She needs food. She needs to be bathed. She needs someone to take care of her. That someone will be me.
I quickly slam the door without muttering a single word. I lock it back up and head up the stairs and out the front door toward my house. I make her a sandwich and grab her a bottle of water before filling the small bucket under the sink with soap and water. I carefully walk everything back over to the church and downstairs.
I unlock the door again and rush inside. I set the sandwich on the cushion of the futon and back up against the door, setting the bucket down at my feet. I remain silent, watching her as her eyes move between the plate a few feet beside her and myself. I can see her weighing her options in her head, and my chest fills with joy when her hunger wins. She timidly makes her way to the couch and lifts the sandwich up to her mouth to take a bite.
I wait until the sandwich is gone before I pick up the bucket and step closer.
I hold up my hands, trying to convey that I mean no harm, but she’s skittish. She’s a caged animal. Her eyes burn with distrust. A reaction I completely deserve.
“I’m going to bathe you.”
I close the gap between us, kne
el down in front of her, and start to yank on the towel she has wrapped around her delicate frame. She holds tightly, trying to prevent me from stripping her of the only thing covering her body. I pull harder. She gives up with a firmer tug of the towel, and I toss it to the floor beside me. I keep my eyes glued to her face, even though that’s the last place they want to be.
I roll up my sleeves and reach down to grab the sponge out of the bucket of soapy water. I ring out the extra water, then bring it up against her skin. The instant the sponge hits her shoulder, tears start to fall down her face. She doesn’t talk or struggle as I wash her body. I don’t understand why she doesn’t fight me, but I’m grateful for it. It doesn’t stop the guilt from tearing apart my insides. My gesture of kindness only serves to remind me of all the harm I’ve already done.
I try to keep the sponge between my fingers and her skin as I run it down her breasts and stomach. My gaze leaves hers when my eyes start to explore. She’s even more beautiful that I originally thought.
I’m hanging off the edge of control when I’m forced to touch her skin for the first time. I bring my other hand up to spread her thighs. Her pretty pink pussy glistens. She’s turned on by this? I can smell her arousal, and it causes my nostrils to flare and my dick to thicken inside my slacks. My mind swarms with lust and confusion. I need to stop this before I do something I shouldn’t. I quickly wash between her legs and step back. Our eyes lock in a silent standoff, until I realize she’s still naked. I can’t expect her to use the towel again, so I unbutton my shirt, pull it off my back, and toss it in her direction. Her eyes skate down my chest, and it’s too much. I can’t be here. I rush from the small room, leaving everything behind. I quickly lock the door, move the board back in place, and head back up the stairs, leaving everything that just happened behind me.
Chapter Five
Camie
Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power. -Oscar Wilde
I’m not a religious person; church was never my thing, but I can recognize some “praise Jesus, hallelujah” bullshit when it’s being sung.
I’ve been here for a few weeks now and after I finally recognized the man with the dark eyes from the club as the same man who was preaching the day I ditched Jeff, it didn’t take me long to put two and two together. I’m at Brookdale First Christian Church. More accurately I’m locked in the basement.
I don’t know what kind of activities these fucking religious nuts get up to, but their basement is built stronger than a fucking bunker for the zombie apocalypse. There’s no way out. I’ve tried screaming for help whenever the gospel music starts up. No one can hear me. Or maybe they just don’t give a shit that their pastor has a drugged-up whore in the basement. Who the fuck knows with these religious types.
The dark-eyed man doesn’t talk to me when he comes down to bathe or feed me, but he does read to me. From the Bible, of course. Passages about sinners and remembering the Sabbath, and a bunch of other bullshit that says I’m going to hell if I don’t change my ways seem to be his favorite.
It might sound strange, but I’ve begun to look forward to his visits. His presence is the only human contact I’ve had since he took me from my apartment. I’m a people person. I love the attention I get, especially from men.
I guess you could say I didn’t get enough affection from my parents when I was younger and now, I seek it out through drugs, alcohol, and sexual gratification. Whatever. Psychoanalyze me if it makes you feel better, but I just like to fuck and get high. The satisfied floaty feeling of an orgasm, combined with a buzz, makes me feel good. Period. End of.
I hear the clink of a key in a lock and know it’s him. I can’t tell you what time it is, no clocks while imprisoned, but the darkening sky showing through the small window across the room lets me know night has fallen. He likes to read to me after the sun sets, like the verses are some kind of bedtime story.
His routine is like clockwork, or I assume it is. Close enough anyway. He feeds me dinner, then bathes me every night using a sponge and bucket filled with soap and water. He brings me a fresh button-down shirt to wear after my bath. I wish he would give me the one off his back like he did that first time he bathed me. The clean ones still smell like him, but the scent doesn’t last as long. His smell is the only reason I wear the clothing. Covering my body is for his benefit and not mine because, well, I don’t mind nudity, mine or anyone else’s.
Like most men, he reacts when he sees my naked flesh. He bathes me longer and more thoroughly each time, and I thought a few times he might have even wanted to touch me in a purely sexual way. Can’t say I haven’t fantasized about it myself. What would it be like for his sacred touch to be tainted by my damaged soul? Would he cleanse me of my wicked transgressions, or would I poison his purity with my sacrilegious ways?
After relocking the door, he makes his way down the solid stone steps and sits in the chair he’s placed beside the futon I use for a bed. He begins to read from yet another passage telling the consequences of committing sinful acts. I tune his words out, choosing to study him instead.
I can’t overpower him. He may be a pastor or whatever the title is, but he’s not weak. His muscles aren’t visible, but I saw the way they flexed that day he gave me his shirt. Not to mention the tattoo that was playing peek-a-boo near the waist of his slacks. I find myself fantasizing about what it might be. Is it something religious to honor the church, or does my saint have a piece of naughty rebellion forever marking his skin? I want to trace whatever it is with my tongue. I wet my lips and imagine what his skin would taste like.
“Are you even listening? You need to repent for your sins.”
His words startle me back to reality. A reality where he is an inch from my face, so close our breaths mingle. His eyes flick down to my lips before quickly coming back to my own and I feel that same want pouring off him like when he washes my body with lingering caresses. I wonder if I could use his lust, his sinful thoughts, to gain my freedom.
I lick my lips, testing his resolve. Again, his eyes flick down, their gaze lingering a little longer this time, and a swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip gives me the answer I’m searching for.
I lean in, gently placing my mouth to his. When he doesn’t pull away, I lick at his lips, a slick, wet plea for him to open. He does and I’m surprised at the response I get. I guess I thought he would be inexperienced or hesitant, but he’s neither. He grabs my face between his hands, the same hands he clasps to pray over me nightly, and he dominates my mouth. His tongue duels with mine in a battle of good versus evil that neither of us wins.
My body begins to respond to his kiss beyond the survival tactic it was meant to be. I feel the flush rising over my chest, warmth flowing to my core and pooling with moisture. I place my hands on his shoulders and pull myself closer with a moan.
He wrenches his mouth from mine and pushes me back onto the futon. He backs away and, picking up his Bible, he hurriedly makes his way up the steps and out of the basement, locking the door behind him.
I don’t know what just happened. With him. With myself. I should be disgusted by this man. He’s kidnapped me and is holding me prisoner underneath his church. Somehow that kiss has changed things; it’s not so black and white anymore. There’s a new feeling; something that wasn’t there before. Something that draws me to him. Something that says we’re the same, both craving touch and satisfaction, but in different ways. I get my fix through a buzz and ultimately unfulfilling climaxes. He uses the church and prayers.
My thoughts are warped and chaotic, painting my captor as my salvation. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want that to be truth and it scares me. This man with his godly aura could be the high that finally kills me.
Chapter Six
Noah
“Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil, to take part in wicked deeds.” Psalm 141:4 NIV
I slam the door behind me, pull the key from my pocket, and shove it into the keyhole, turning un
til I hear the lock click into place. I rush up the stairs, stopping once I make it to the landing between floors. My back leans on the wall, and I slide down until my ass hits the floor. I tip my head back, searching for more air, but I still can’t catch my breath. My blood rushes through my veins. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest, while I struggle to get my head in a more rational place, but all I can focus on are thoughts of her. I can still feel the burn from when her lips were pressed against mine. It’s both the best and the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.
I don’t know what to do. How am I supposed to handle the situation from this point on? There’s no coming back from this, and if there is, I’m not sure I want to. There’s no way I’m not going to want to do that again. It’s taking every bit of willpower I have left not to run back down to her. I want her. I want to hold her in my arms, with her lips pressed against mine. I’ve been pushing boundaries and straddling lines since I took her. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and that’s exactly why I shouldn’t have her, but I don’t think I even have a choice at this point. She’s branded herself onto my soul and locked it in with the touch of her lips.
I should be ashamed of myself for taking advantage, but I’m not. I can’t bring myself to care about any of the consequences that could come from this. All I’m concerned about is how I’m going to be able to save her soul, while also making her mine.
Picking myself up off the floor, I climb the rest of the stairs. A little distance will do me good. I can hopefully gain some clarity over this entire situation. I head toward the front door to go home, but as I turn the corner, my attention is moved toward the back of the church. My office door is open, and the light is on. I know for a fact I turned the light off and closed the door before I headed downstairs to see her.
Thou Shall Not: A Dark Ten Commandments Anthology Page 10
