Saint of Sin

The second sin burns

The room was black velvet, soaked in low red light.

I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me. No priest robes. No candles. Just a hotel suite that smelled like desire and danger.

He was waiting.

Not in robes. Not in shame.

Just black dress pants, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and eyes that said: You’ve already lost.

“You came,” he said, watching me like prey.

I said nothing. Just dropped the veil and stepped out of my habit.

Underneath, lace hugged every curve like sin spun into fabric.

He exhaled smoke. Slowly. Like he’d waited years for this moment.

"On your knees,” he said.

I froze.

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stepped forward, crowding my space. His voice was silk dipped in poison. “You walked into my church, played your little game, and left me hard in the dark.” He leaned close, lips grazing my cheek. “Now you’ll pay for it.”

I smiled. “So the pastor’s finally dead?”

He looked me dead in the eyes. “The pastor was never real.”

He grabbed my throat—not too tight, just enough—and pulled me into a kiss so raw, so consuming, it made my knees tremble. His mouth tasted like wrath and whiskey. Like salvation corrupted.

I melted into him. I hated it. I wanted more.

He didn’t undress me. He ripped through the lace. Spun me onto the bed like I was nothing but a lesson to be taught. And he taught it with his mouth, his hands, his teeth.

Every touch said: You thought you could use me?

He spread me wide, mouth between my thighs, and gave no mercy.

No prayers.

Just pleasure so violent, I thought I’d break apart.

I came screaming his name—and he hadn’t even touched himself yet.

When he finally took me, it wasn’t romantic.

It was punishment. Claiming. A brutal rhythm that didn’t ask permission.

“You wanted the demon?” he growled, pounding into me. “Now say thank you.”

And I did. Over and over. Pathetic. Addicted. Powerless.

But in the haze, I saw it—his back.

Carved into his skin: a tattoo of a serpent wrapped around a cross.

Not holy. Not sacred.

Branded. Owned. Marked.

“Who do you belong to?” I gasped, fingers digging into his back.

He smirked against my neck.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

He flipped me again, went deeper, rougher. Every thrust was a threat. Every moan a surrender. When I came again, I thought I saw stars. I didn’t. It was the room spinning from too much truth.

Afterward, I lay there, broken open. Bare. Shaken.

He lit another cigarette and looked at me with calm fire.

"You think this is just s*x?" he said. “It’s not.”

“Then what is it?” I whispered.