Celibate-ish

The itch was a living thing. Just like me. Just like you. Just like that werewolf alpha you’ll never meet but fantasize about anyway. It started in my gut—a low, simmering burn that crawled up my chest, tightened around my lungs, and stole every breath of logic I had left. My palms were sweating, my vision narrowed, my jaw ticked. My brain consumed by a singular, desperate thought: I need it. It wasn’t just my c**k that was hungry. It was everything else—my bones, my soul, the hollow space behind my ribs where most men keep their hearts. This beast had lived inside me since the first time someone stole my choice. Since hands I trusted taught me pleasure wasn’t mine to give. Only to take. It had festered, a malignant tumor of memory and violation, until it became the only thing I truly understood. The only thing I could control. Sex, not for pleasure. Not for connection. For silence. For forgetting. For obliteration. The kind that burns until there’s nothing left but bones and sweat and silence. A means to chase control in a life dictated by boardrooms and public image, by my grandmother’s cold eyes and my father’s ghost. A way to fill the gaping void carved out of my soul years ago. When it roared, I fed it. Hard. Rough. Without a care. Because facing the emptiness was a terror far greater than any depravity. I gripped the limo’s leather armrest. Outside, city lights blurred, streaks of neon and shame as we left the studio behind—and with it, what little dignity I had left. The cameras, the blinding flashes, the hungry eyes of the public, still burned behind my eyelids. My own words, forced and hollow, echoed in my skull: "I, Drew Carson, pledge to never, ever f**k anyone for a year and a half. It is done." A goddamn public vow of celibacy. A joke. A farce. A gilded cage built by my own recklessness. A prison sentence designed to save the Carson name, not my soul. I didn’t know who I was without the s*x. Without the chaos. Without the f*****g. What if there was nothing left? What if underneath it all, I really was just... empty? The thought was a cold, paralyzing fear. The reporter, sharp-eyed and perfectly coiffed, had sneered. "You’re not Henry Hart. You're a scandal waiting to happen. And you just happened. Again." She was right. This beast, my constant companion, had been with me through every boardroom deal, every empty bed. For me, s*x was obliteration. A means to chase control. Just last week, the itch had been a low hum. At a charity gala, a stripper caught my eye. Long legs, gravity-defying breasts, a come-hither pout. She ticked all my boxes. Yet, when she leaned in, her scent cloying, her invitation explicit, my d**k stayed stubbornly, infuriatingly, soft. Couldn’t get my d**k up. The b***h suggested my d**k was broken. “Never met a man who wasn’t affected by my presence,” she’d sneered. She was wrong. It had been perfectly fine hours prior. She just didn’t ignite the specific chaos I craved. She didn't offer the oblivion that truly silenced the beast. She was just another body, and sometimes, even that wasn't enough. Which brought me to that boring conference room. My eyes surveyed the room, looking for a distraction, a willing body. Most were married or in a relationship. I wasn’t interested in a threesome. All would be well with a quick shag and a woman who did tickle my fancy. A woman who could provide the obliteration. A woman as depraved as me. And that’s when I saw her. Diane. Tall, leggy, with a predatory gleam in her eyes. Recently divorced for the sixth time. A beautiful, chaotic mess. Perfect for my plan. A quick, no-strings release. A temporary fix. A willing participant in my self-destruction. Moments later, we were crashing into her penthouse, clothes flying. My blood was hot, hands itchy, the beast roaring. I should have known something was up when she suggested her place, but I was too consumed by the craving. Itching for release, I entered her with one swift, brutal thrust. Diane’s mouth was open, ready to scream or moan, when he came in. The door burst open. A man stood there, face contorted in rage. Lovely Diane was not so lovely. She was married, to him, earlier that day. Outraged, I gathered my things, d**k still hard and throbbing, and stormed out. I sent a quick apology and a hefty sum. Money, after all, was supposed to stop nonsense. Whoever said money stops nonsense lied. Four hours later, the world knew. Thanks to not-so-lovely Diane, I’d been labeled a s*x addict, a philanderer. Headlines screamed. Memes proliferated. My face, caught mid-thrust, was plastered everywhere. Carson Group stock dipped eight percent. A direct blow to the pristine, corporate elitism my French father’s side of the family cultivated. The board was furious. My grandmother? Nuclear. And so, here I was, sitting across from her in a limo, moments after making a public declaration of forced abstinence, while the beast inside me screamed. A vow of celibacy. A joke. A farce. A public relations stunt to save the Carson name, not my soul. What if there was nothing left? What if underneath it all, I really was just... empty? Ellen Carson sat opposite me like a statue carved from salt and steel. Her bun severe. Her stare, worse. She looked like she was planning to beat the lust out of me with a Bible. Her American accent, clipped, precise, laced with venom. "You just can’t help but disgrace me, can you?" Her voice was venom in pearls. I didn’t answer. Too busy trying to breathe through the fire under my skin. The need was alive. Gnawing. Starved. She sniffed. "The Vatican called." I blinked. "What?" "The Vatican," she repeated. "Apparently, your father's side of the family is embarrassed. Deeply. Mortally." I let out a hollow laugh. "Took them long enough." Her nostrils flared. "You're lucky I didn't throw you into rehab. Or exile." "This is exile," I muttered. She turned to the window. The limo was no longer heading toward my penthouse. My city. My comfort. We were headed into green. Into silence. Into something worse. I sat up. "Where are we going?" She didn’t answer. Her profile unyielding. The buildings thinned. Streets gave way to trees. Old, looming trees that judged you. The air grew cooler, cleaner, devoid of city exhaust. "Seriously, Grandma. Where the hell are we?" My voice sharper, laced with dread. This was not my world. This was the kind of place Wi-Fi feared. A Carson didn’t belong. Her only reply was: "Stay in the car." I scoffed. "What is this? Intervention? Cult recruitment? Are you planning to baptize the filth out of me in cow piss?" But she was already stepping out. Her movements precise, unhurried. The door opened, letting in the crisp, cold air, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something ancient, holy. I looked out the tinted glass. And froze. There, nestled between endless acres of rural nowhere, stood a massive stone structure. Gothic. Foreboding. Too clean to be abandoned. Too cold to be welcoming. Its dark silhouette rose against the twilight sky, a silent, imposing sentinel. A convent. No. No. f*****g. Way. A cross, stark and unyielding, leaned against the ornate iron gate, its shadow long and ominous. I stayed in the car. For a minute. My jaw tight, throat dry, staring at the imposing stone walls, the towering cross. The air, even through the closed windows, felt heavy with sanctity, with rules, with everything I despised. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest. This was the antithesis of everything I was, everything I craved. Then I opened the door. Because the itch wouldn’t let me sit still. Because the beast inside me—starved, furious—refused to wait in silence. Because being caged in that limo felt worse than whatever sanctified hell lay ahead. And deep down, I knew this wasn’t just exile. It was a setup. Something waited behind those walls. Not salvation. Not peace. Something that would unravel me in ways s*x never could. Something colder. Hotter. Deadlier. Whatever lived inside that convent—it didn’t just threaten my control. It threatened to touch the parts of me I swore no one would ever reach. And the second I crossed that threshold… I knew I was already damned. Let the holy games begin.