Thou Shall Not: A Dark Ten Commandments Anthology

by Michelle Brown

  I mentally chastise myself for lusting after a teen, for stepping out on my wife, if only in my mind, and close my eyes momentarily to right myself with my faith and Father.

  Clearing my throat, I head to the cabinets that store the cups, all while the silence drones on.

  “He’s right, Mich. You have to keep pushing,” Cal comments a moment later as my hand shakes filling the cup with water.

  It doesn’t make sense how much it bugs me for him to take residence of my praise to her, using it for his own gain. Even if she’s his. Even if no matter who helps her, it’s in her best interest. Even if I shouldn’t give anything more than fatherly advice.

  None of this makes sense.

  The jealousy, the desire for a random stranger, the attraction for said stranger when not once in my marriage have my eyes strayed.

  What is she?

  And why, God, is she here?

  The rest of dinner goes with a lot of small talk. Stella asks about work, but there’s not a ton I can say without being too forward. Cal talks about his scholarship options, and his desire to go to Templar. I’m proud of him, but I don’t say it. His girlfriend listens intently but keeps her eyes in my direction, causing my body to be more frigid. My mind seems to be on autopilot and stuck on a girl that needs my help, yet filled with her striking eyes and luscious mouth.

  When Cal leaves to drive her home, I’m both relieved and bitter. I shouldn’t feel this tinge of saltiness, she’s not mine, he’ll take care of her, he’s who she needs.

  After I shower, getting dressed in only cotton pajamas, I lay down with too much on my mind. The girl, the most disturbing, yet calming, part of everything.

  “What’s on your mind, darling?” Stella asks, rubbing her fingers up and down my bare chest, her fingers dipping in each divot of muscle.

  “Just that girl,” I say, which is the truth—or part of it, at least.

  “What about her?” Her voice isn’t full of envy or regard, only curiosity laces her tone. Tempest must’ve made a good impression because she seems concerned as well.

  “Something about her makes me feel like her home life is worse off than she let on.” It’s more than that though, it’s deeper, sadder... just more.

  “You’re probably right. I was talking with Callum, he thinks you should do counseling with her.”

  I shake my head abruptly, wishing it wasn’t so jerky. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

  “You did it for Callum’s friend Charles. Why not her?”

  “She’s involved with him...” I mutter, irrationally irritated.

  “You and I both know Callum isn’t sleeping with her,” she chastises, her face one of pride. Yeah, as far as I’m aware, he’s pure.

  “Regardless, it feels unprofessional.”

  She shakes her head at my need to deny this, but still, her teeth shine through with her grin. “I think God would have a field day with you, denying this poor girl of a chance... don’t you think?” She scrunches her nose at me, as she does when she’s wanting to get her way.

  “We'll see,” I attempt, then decide to distract her. Flipping sideways, I trail my palms down her shoulders. Her nightie straps sliding down with the movement.

  My eyes lock onto her stiff nipple, bringing it into my mouth in the next moment.

  “Ev,” she moans, and I'm trying everything not to think of the blonde bombshell. But her eyes, her hair, her hips... they infiltrate me as my mouth feasts on my wife's body.

  I trail kisses, lifting her nightie. Her cotton panties stare back at me. I bet my Tempest wears lace or silk, something taunting, delectable... sexy.

  Moving them to the side, I lick up the seam of my wife as she mewls her approval. My cock isn't in it though, it's stuck with a lost girl that needs a man.

  A man that can't be me.

  As my mouth devours her, I think of Tempest, I imagine her above me, getting her pussy licked, knowing she'd pull my hair. My wife doesn't do rough, but for some reason, I think Tempi would.

  She'd beg for it.

  She'd grab it.

  She'd give as much as she took.

  Within minutes she's writhing and calling out her release.

  When I kiss my way up her body, it's not her I fantasize, it's not her I see, it's not her I feel.

  When my cock hardens, it's with the smirk the little Tempest gave me when she caught me staring. As my dick enters my wife, it's the blonde siren’s cunt I imagine driving into.

  And when I come, I pray that this feeling goes away, that my wife doesn't notice, and that He will give me the strength to stay away from carnal thoughts.

  “Wow, that was very unexpected but pleasant. What’s gotten into you, Ev?” She pants, and I lay back on my back contemplating everything that changed in a matter of hours.

  “I love you,” I respond, avoiding her question.

  “I love you, too.” She kisses my lips once before rolling over, turning off her bedside lamp, and snoring quickly after.

  Instead of following suit, I’m stuck in my head, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

  Chapter Five

  Evan

  Throughout the night, my body and mind are restless. I toss and turn but luckily, I don’t wake Stella. At four in the morning, I give up, guilt and desperation clawing at me constantly. Something in me aches, it’s foreign, new, like discovering a piece of yourself that you never shed light on.

  Sneaking out of the bed my wife still snores in, I creep into the master bathroom, needing to destroy the urges in me. Several times throughout the night, my mind went to my duties, praying for answers, logic, or a damn outlet. Nothing helped, He didn’t answer. Now with my boxers on the ground, I stare at myself in the mirror.

  What has she done to me?

  No one person should dictate my actions but me, yet this teenager—my son’s little girlfriend—is doing exactly that.

  After I undress, I step into the shower. Usually, I’d warm it up, making the temperature less frigid, but not this time.

  My skin feels like ants are crawling all over it. It’s hot and red and irritated. It’s unsatisfied in the worst kind of way. The only fix is release. Stella has never been one for self-indulgence. She prefers me using her body for sustenance, but today, it’s not enough. To ease this itch, relieve the overwhelming need to breathe, I need this.

  Hopefully, twelve feet away, in bed, she won’t notice. Maybe she doesn’t have to know, doesn’t have to see... maybe...

  I can’t defy my carnal desires.

  In the end, no matter the consequences, my palm fists my cock, thinking of my son’s girlfriend.

  My eyes close with the pleasure of my palm, the gritty texture of my calloused hands rubbing down my length reverently. It’s too much.

  Closing my eyes, my mind goes to her. Her golden tresses that would be beautiful wrapped around my fingers, her dainty hands gripping me, not fumbling like Stella would, but determined and skilled. And her eyes, how deep blue they’d be while staring up at me, taking my full length down her throat.

  Because she would take me. It’s in her eyes, in the way she licked her lips. She’d take my cock as deep as it’d go, and still, she’d beg for more.

  The imagery of me having her tied down on the altar at my cathedral has me exploding in my palm. That doesn’t stop me from stroking further, using my release as lubricant. Because this satiation—this hunger—can’t be fulfilled until that girl is on her knees. Kneeling before me—her very own God.

  And I stroke more and more and more, until there’s nothing else to stroke.

  After I finish my shower, I brush my teeth. When I go in for my coffee, I see Cal. And for a moment, the guilt of my imagination, the animalistic need to take what’s his, hits me.

  “Hey, Dad,” he mumbles, his hair in disarray, his eyes a little lost.

  “Cal,” I return, unsure of what to say to him. “Everything alright?” The father in me has to ask, even if the jealous man in me doesn’t wan
t to. It has to be her. He cares.

  “Mich,” he starts, running a hand through his hair. His expression is troubled, unnerved, almost scared. “Last night, she...” His constant stutter and pause has me nervous.

  “Yes,” I offer, hoping he’ll continue.

  “She called me, distraught. Something happened last night. I asked, but she said nothing important, but she was a mess.”

  I stare at him, stalk still, but unable to form words. Is she okay? Why didn’t he wake me? Where is she now?

  “Is she okay?”

  “That’s the thing. She never called back. It freaked me out enough to go searching for her.” He sees my question. Answering in the next moment. “I’m sorry for sneaking out.”

  “Cal,” I avoid the reprimand, “is she okay?” His eyes meet mine.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t find her.”

  My heart races, beating rapidly in my chest. It makes sense now, his appearance, the lack of sleep in his eyes, the stress... she’s missing?

  “I’ll check the shelters,” I offer. Being a Deacon has its perks in this city. It gives me a chance to get answers without the paperwork.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I’m going to head to school. I nod, wanting to give him more, but the inability to focus on his needs have everything to do with her.

  She needs me.

  Regardless of how unhealthy it is, I’ll be there.

  I’ll find her.

  Chapter Six

  Tempi

  After running away from Cal and his family, I went home.

  Worst idea ever.

  Usually I try slumming it with Carter two trailers over. He’s sweet and not a total creep. Whenever Fred is being inappropriate, drunk off his ass, or handsy because my mom is worthless, Carter gives me a place to go.

  One thing you learn when being a trailer park kid is there’s only trash. You can be the cleaner, more recycled garbage in the pit, or the dirtiest of all the scum. Either way, you’re disgusting and vile. It’s one thing I’ve wanted to stay away from since the beginning. Brush myself off, start a new life in a new town with a great guy like Cal.

  But here’s the thing...

  You can polish a turd, but it’ll always be a fucking turd.

  No matter how hard I try, what I do to better my life, I take fifty steps back. Cal’s father, Evan, he’s another step back. There’s something to that man. Maybe it’s his hands, how they show how hard he works, or the veins leading up his arms to muscle, that shows he’s a protector. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the way he looked at me, as if I were cut from the same cloth as him. A good girl in a bad place, a broke one with a story, something worth shining.

  When I got home—if you could call this dump that—Fred was there. Like usual, he was dirty, with days—if not weeks— old clothes. He smelled like a cheap dive bar and hookers. Immediately, my lip curled in disgust. It’s always a reaction to him and his disgusting self. But this time, he noticed, and he wasn’t a fan.

  “What are you doing here Shelly?” he accuses. “Aren’t you supposed to be opening those pretty thighs for some man? We need the money.” By the end, my stomach is no longer clenching from the dinner, but the shame and worry and fear of what he’d do.

  No response comes from me. In result, he sneers, coming closer while I back away. “If you’re not spreading your legs for them, you may as well do it for me, doll. Freddy needs a fixin’.”

  I back up quicker as he makes his way to me, stalking me like prey. His eyes—soulless and high—meet mine, telling me what I need to know. You’re not safe here. Turning for the door, I swing it open before his hand clasps my wrist, yanking me back to him. His stench fills my nose as his body presses against mine. Gagging at the smell, I barely get my elbow backward, hitting his gut.

  “Bitch!” he hollers, digging one hand into my arm, while bending with the other at his stomach. He backhands me a moment before I wiggle free, my foot connecting with his crotch a moment later. My face throbs, but it doesn’t stop me.

  He falls over in a heap of yells and curse words, and I run. Not even stopping at my room, I escape the trailer, running as far and as fast as I can.

  The memory burns behind my eyelids as the tears fall freely. Last night, I ran. Cal has called me eleven times, and the texts are a mile long. After breaking down on the phone with him last night, I couldn’t drag him down. He’s not meant to save me. It’s not his job.

  He’s worried, but he can’t see me this way. With my face like this, with last night’s clothes... it’s pathetic.

  If you won’t talk to me, at least text my dad. See about that counselling session. His text comes through and he attaches Evan’s number.

  What if Evan can help?

  Maybe he can get me into a halfway home. Where I won’t have to share my body, money, or sanity.

  I text him.

  EVAN

  After this morning, all I can think about is her well-being. Before Cal left for school, she never got back to him.

  Is she okay?

  Is she in a ditch somewhere?

  Tempest doesn’t appear to me as a weak or fragile woman. Unless you consider her being a bomb, she seems tough and resilient. For her to cry, it must have been bad.

  As I sit in my office, combing over files for some of my patients, I mull over what I could possibly do to help her, even if she refuses my help.

  Unknown Number: Hello, Deacon. Cal told me this was the best way to reach you. I really need help.

  Is this it? The moment where I can help? The moment I avoided last night?

  I'm not sure what Cal has told you, Michelle, but I'm a youth counselor at Sacred Heart for troubled teens, not a doctor.

  Tempest: I'm very troubled, Father.

  I wanted to correct her, tell her I'm a Deacon, not an ordained priest, but the word father... imagining her sinful lips rolling over the word has me unable to proceed telling her. Instead, I respond in a way no son of God should.

  Come to my office at Sacred Heart after school. It's on the border of Cape Hill. Three sharp, Tempest. Don't be late.

  Tempest: Tempest? I know the place, I'll be there.

  See you then.

  Tempest: Yes, Father. ;)

  My chest beats in rapid succession as the tease floods me. I shouldn't have accepted this. But no matter how tempting this young woman is, my duty is to help, to serve, to guide. Even if I know she’s troubled, even when she’s less than half my age, even when I’m married, and she’s in a relationship with my son.

  It doesn’t matter.

  None of it does.

  It’s fifteen minutes to three, I have no clients, no teens that need guidance. I watch the clock intently, seeing the little hand tick, tick, tick, praying for strength once again. Removing my rosary from my neck, I wrap it around my wrist twice, then say a short prayer.

  “Am I interrupting?” A sultry voice sounds out by the door. I can’t open my eyes. I know it’s her. She has a tone to her, husky yet feminine, young yet wise, and sexy yet subtle.

  I hear her heeled feet tap on the floor, and my eyes open on their own accord. She’s wearing these jeans, they’re ripped from her ankle to the apex of her thighs. Even the little pockets inside are showing from the tears. Her long, toned legs stare at me, the golden skin shining. It’s taunting me, and I lick my suddenly dry lips in return.

  “My eyes are up here, Father.” When that word leaves her mouth, my eyes connect with her sassy blues. She’s smirking, and my cock is thickening in result.

  But her face, even covered in makeup, is bruised. I’ve seen enough cases to know what domestic abuse looks like. My blood boils and I’m out of my chair in the next breath.

  “Who did this to you?” I demand, and she flinches at the quick movement of my hand. There’s not a bone in my body that would hurt her. Not unless she asked me too and not for the kind of pain that this motherfucker did either.

  She looks away from me, shame lighting her features in red, tinting her chee
ks, making them show the bruise more clearly.

  I cup her hurt cheek, angling it in every which way, unable to keep my hands to myself. “Tempest,” I purr, my voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Who did this?”

  A tear cascades down her cheek, making her appear smaller somehow, and that breaks something in me. It makes me want to lick it, and imprint myself, make her know she can and will only cry for me. That that man won’t have another tear of hers. They’re all mine now.

  She whimpers when I caress the tender flesh. Without any strength, I lick the tear that’s made it to her chin. She arches into me, hitting my hardened flesh with her ass.

  “You taste like sadness, Tempest.”

  “Why do you call me that?” she deflects, her body shaking against mine.

  “Because you’ve been sent to me, to tempt me—and you’ve won,” I rasp, loving the feel of her against me. She’s meant to be here, to give me the forbidden fruit, feed me until all I can do is indulge, and gorge, and satiate this unending need.

  “I like it,” she whispers, tipping her head back, making me smell the sin seeping out of her pores. It’s a sickness I’d gladly indulge in.

  If she was poison, I’d swallow every drop.

  If she was hell wrapped in a bow, I’d unwrap her to my own damnation.

  If she was death with a warning label, I’d rip it off, taking her anyway.

  When she turns into me, her eyes stare at my mouth, begging me to risk it all, asking me for acceptance. And with a curt nod, she takes my mouth with hers.

  As soon as her lips—puffy, pouty, and perfect—press against mine, I’m a goner. My knees get weak, like she’s a goddess in need of kneeling. I’d do it. I’d risk it all.

  She slides the tip of her tongue against my lips, begging for entrance. With zero resistance left in me, I let her in.

  In my heart.

  My soul.

  My goddamn creed.

  She’s my new religion.

  She tastes like sin and sacrifice, and I’d give myself over to her if only to never stop this feeling inside.