Lessons in Sin

by Pam Godwin

Okay, so he loved Jesus and worked out. Not a crazy notion.

She had a weakness for vulnerable things. So do I.

But she was strong. Resilient. She could bear it. She would take it so beautifully.

Never underestimate the mind of a woman.

My welts would glow like fire on her flawless, porcelain skin. My hands would leave a ring of blue around her delicate throat. My cock would stretch and tear and split her tiny pussy in half. I ripped my stare away before I did something irreparable.

Every day with her was a wild ride of tight turns, steep slopes, and unpredictable adjustments. I’d never been so mentally and physically aroused in my life.

I loved the feel of his iron grip, the heat of his legs against my backside, and his single-minded focus on teaching me a lesson. I wanted his lessons in sin.

If I could recite every prayer like this—with his hand on my face and his mouth close enough to kiss—I would do it without complaint. So I said the words slowly, drawing it out, never wanting it to end.

She needed me to console her. I wasn’t the right person for that job, but I would figure it out because, dammit, I didn’t want anyone else holding her.

I couldn’t picture myself doing such a thing, but for her, I would do anything.

“No one touches you!” My voice thundered with my rage, scaring off whatever was in the trees. She stumbled back. I stayed with her, shoving my face in hers. “Do I make myself clear?”

“If you leave, I’ll haul you back.” “What? You’ll come for me?” “Yes. Then you’ll come for me.”

I was no longer interested in giving blow jobs to college guys who worked at Burger King. Now I only wanted to spread my legs for men twice my age who bit and spanked and wore clerical collars.

“Thank you.” I squeezed Daisy’s hand. “For giving me the courage to walk out of here.” “Thank you.” She squeezed back. “For giving me the courage to walk in here.”

“A little breath play and some red marks are nothing compared to the brutality I inflicted on women.

“But with you?” He spoke against my throat. Lips like warm velvet. Voice like cold steel. “I am viciously, reprehensibly possessive of you.”

Was I controlling? Absolutely. Was I wrong to keep her close? Debatable.

“Kneel.” One word, a single command, and I was shook. Owned.

“You belong to me. No one else. Mine, Tinsley. Fucking mine. Do you understand?”

I hadn’t been called to be a priest. I’d been called to be hers.

There was no cure for heartbreak.