Chapter 6: The Second Lesson
The ache was a constant companion. It moved with her as she limped from the bookshelf to the bedside table, a damp rag clutched in her hand. Every swipe across the dusty wood sent a fresh throb through her backside, a heated reminder of the leather. The room was silent except for the soft swipe of cloth and her own shallow breathing.
He watched her from the armchair, a ledger open on his lap, pretending to read. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck.
She finished the table and moved to the windowsill, her fingers trembling as she lifted a heavy, guttered candle. The world outside the stained glass was a blur of muted greens and grays—the churchyard.Normal life. It felt like a story she’d read once.
“You missed a spot.”
His voice cut through the quiet. She froze, then looked back at the table she’d just cleaned.It looked fine.
“By your foot. The leg.”
She looked down. A faint smudge, probably from her own knee earlier. She bent, a sharp gasp escaping her as the movement stretched sore muscles, and wiped it clean.
“Good,” he said, and the word felt like a caress. It scared her how much she wanted to hear it again.
The afternoon light bled away, replaced by the gloom of evening. He lit a single lamp, which cast long, dancing shadows that made the saints in the icons seem to twitch. He finally closed his ledger.
“Come here.”
Her body obeyed before her mind could protest. She stood before him, hands clenched at her sides, smelling of dust and vinegar from the cleaning solution.
“You performed your duty. Sluggishly, but adequately.” He reached out and took her wrist, his grip firm. With a gentle pull, he guided her over his knees once more. The position was familiar now, a sickening ritual. Her cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his trousers. He pushed her sweater up her back, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and underwear, peeling them down to her knees in one smooth motion.
The cool air hit the punished skin, making her shiver.
His hand, warm and dry, smoothed over the landscape of her ass. The skin was still warm, marked with faint, fading blushes from the paddle. He traced the contours, a proprietor assessing his land.
“Healing nicely,” he murmured. “The flesh remembers, but it also forgives. It’s more pious than the mind.”
She closed her eyes, waiting for the sting to return. It didn’t.
Instead, his hands moved, spreading her cheeks apart. She tensed, a small, terrified sound catching in her throat. Then she felt it—the wet, hot stroke of his tongue, starting low, at the very seam of her, and dragging upward in a slow, deliberate line.
She jolted, a bolt of pure, electric shock shooting up her spine. “Oh—”
He did it again, slower this time, savoring. The intimacy of it was devastating, far more invasive than any strike. This wasn’t correction. This was… consumption.
“You taste of soap and sin,” he said, his breath hot against her. “A quaint combination.”
Before she could process the shame, his hands were on her hips, flipping her onto her back on the rug.The world tilted. He loomed over her, his knees pushing her legs apart until she felt open, utterly exposed to the lamplight and his gaze. He settled between her thighs, his shoulders holding them wide.
He looked down at her, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flame. “You will watch,” he commanded, his voice low. “You will see what your devotion earns you.”
Then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his mouth on her most sensitive flesh made her back arch off the floor. It wasn’t like before, in the chair. This was deliberate, unhurried. He licked into her, a flat, wet stroke that had her heels digging into the rug. His tongue circled the tight, aching bundle of nerves, and her hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to cling, because the world was dissolving into sensation.
“Please,” she heard herself beg, but she didn’t know what she was begging for.
He ignored her, building a rhythm, his tongue flicking and pressing, then sucking gently. The coil inside her, the one that had terrified her earlier, tightened with every pass. It was unbearable.It was everything. She could feel her own wetness, hear the slick, obscene sounds he was making. Her hips began to move of their own accord, meeting his mouth.
“That’s it,” he growled against her, the vibration tipping her closer to the edge.“Use me. Take your sacrament.”
The pressure broke. A wave of pure, mindless pleasure crashed through her, wringing a raw, screaming cry from her throat. Her vision whited out, her body convulsing under his relentless mouth until she was spent, shuddering.
He didn’t let her come down. As the aftershocks trembled through her, he pushed two fingers inside her. They slid in easily, stretched her, a delicious, deep fullness. He began to move them, curling upwards.
“You’ll learn to come on command,” he said, his voice rough. “A thought, a word, a touch. You’re a vessel. I will fill you with whatever I choose. Pain.Pleasure. They’re my gifts to you.”
He scissored his fingers, and she whimpered, oversensitive and yet already aching again. The glide of his fingers, the roughness of his wedding band inside her, it was too much. She was babbling, fragments of prayers and pleas.
“Daddy, please, I can’t—”
The word hung in the air. He went very still.
Then he smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “What did you call me?”
Terror sluiced through the haze of pleasure. She shook her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
He pressed deeper with his fingers, a sharp, perfect pressure. “Say it.”
The orgasm ripped through her, unexpected and violent, torn from her by his command and his touch. “Daddy!” she cried out, the word a confession and a surrender as she came again, her body seizing around his fingers.
He watched her fall apart, his gaze relentless. When she lay spent, a trembling mess on the rug, he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, tasting her.
“Good girl,” he said, simply.
He stood, looming over her.“Get up. Get dressed. There’s a vestry floor that needs scrubbing before midnight mass.”
She could barely move. Every muscle was liquid. The shame was a cold ash in her mouth, but beneath it, humming in her veins, was a terrifying, hungry peace. He had taken her apart and put her back together, all wrong.
As she pulled her clothes on, her body sore in a dozen new ways, she caught her reflection in the dark glass of the window. Her eyes were wide, her lips swollen. She looked used. She looked like his.
The word echoed in her silent mind, a dark, warm secret.
Daddy.
And for the first time, the hollow ache of her succubus hunger was gone, replaced by something far more demanding.