u/DoctorW000

The Goonette Bride

By u/DoctorW000

Summary (spoiler): >!On her wedding night, a young woman's dream of a romantic getaway turns into a waking nightmare when her new husband reveals himself as a priest in a dark, supernatural cult. !<

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it less than entirely consensual.

****

^(Chapter 1) ^(|) ^(Chapter 2) ^(| Chapter 3 [Final] -this one- |)

Chapter 2: The Church's Wife

The three months that followed our honeymoon didn't feel like months. They felt like a single, elongated gooning session. We moved back to our house in Ann Arbor. It was a beautiful, sun-drenched craftsman that I now only saw through a haze of exhaustion and blue light. Plans for a garden, for a porch swing, maybe a gazebo in the large backyard were all forgotten. Such things would interfere with Worship.

My "normie" life was a costume I put on every morning. I still gave tennis lessons to the rich, out-of-shape housewives at the country club. I stood on the court in my white pleated skirt, the sun beating down on my copper hair, but I wasn't really there. My body moved through the motions of a backhand or a serve with a sluggish, ghost-like memory, but my mind was back in the house, sitting in the black leather chair.

Whenever I had the chance I was in one of the bathroom stalls, furiously masturbating while watching porn on my phone. I missed entire appointments because of that. Before very long my client list was dwindling.

I was no longer “present”. While my students complained about their diets or their husbands, all I could hear was the low hum of static. The sounds of droning music, gasping women, grunting men. All I could see on the back of my eyelids were the strobing scenes of the Goddess. 

I was getting dumber; I knew it, and I didn't care. Complex sentences felt like tangled yarn. I’d forget the score in the middle of a set. I’d forget the name of a woman I’d coached for three years.

"Ella? Are you okay?" my friend Sarah asked one afternoon after I’d stared at a tennis ball for a full minute without moving. "You look... different. Are you eating enough? Your eyes are so wide, and you've lost that... that snap you always had."

I just blinked at her, my dilated pupils struggling to focus on her face. She looked low-resolution. She looked unimportant. "I'm fine," I murmured, the words feeling heavy and clumsy in my mouth. "Just... devoted."

“Devoted?” Sarah asked. “What does that mean?”

Her questions annoyed me. They confused me, too. Couldn’t she see that I was more than okay? Didn’t she understand devotion?

I didn’t know how to answer her so I didn’t. I simply smiled my vacant smile, turned away, and left.

Soon my friends were giving up on me even more than my clients.

Every evening was blessedly the same. The moment I got home, I’d strip off the Ella Marie costume and go to the room that used to be a guest office. This was where I had planned to set up my candle making business until it was needed for a nursery. Now, it was a temple. David had moved the Gooning Chair there, positioned perfectly in front of a new, even larger screen.

The training had evolved. Now, the pornography wasn't just recorded; it was live. David had set up a professional-grade webcam. My service was to goon for an audience. I would sit in the chair, my softer, paler body reflected in the lens, and watch a grid of a dozen men. They were all in their own dark rooms, all wearing the black robes, all jerking off in perfect, rhythmic unison with my own movements.

It was a closed loop. I gave them power by watching; they gave the Goddess power by watching me. I was "Becoming Porn," a live-action vessel for the Gaze. And I never came. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. That would be blasphemy. I lived in a state of perpetual arousal and frustration.

I enjoyed the endless, hypnotic Porn more than watching men jerk off for me, but I never argued. I never questioned. Such ideas felt exhausting. It was better to just trust my husband, my Priest, and put my faith in the Goddess.

I didn't do yoga anymore. The time I used to spend on the mat, stretching and breathing, was now spent on the Edge. My core was still thin, but the muscle definition was fading, replaced by a soft, sensitive layer of translucent skin. I was a hothouse flower, blooming only in the artificial light of the Screen.

David was always there, humming in the kitchen or standing in the doorway, his serenity a constant pressure. I didn't hate him anymore. I didn't even think about the oatmeal or syringe. More than just my husband or my Priest, he was my Supplier. He was the one who managed the Feed.

Sometimes I would goon while watching him masturbate. It always seemed unfair that he got to cum, but I never complained. I liked watching his cock shoot out plentiful gobs of hot semen into a large spoon, and then be fed it like a babe.

Once a disgusting thought in the back of the mind of a puritanical young woman, now I found the taste of cum delicious. Goddess wanted me fed it continually, and my reward was learning how to savor the taste.

By the end of the third month, the Christian girl from the small town was nothing but a flickering memory, as distant and faded as the Lord's Prayer. I lived for the hum. I lived for the strobe. I lived for the moment the Screen flared to life and the Goddess whispered, Don't look away.

***

The invitation came on our three month anniversary. At 1:00 AM the next morning David entered my bedroom and told me it was time. 

"The training is complete, Ella Marie," he whispered. I didn’t need a needle or a command. I was already awake, sitting in the dark of our bedroom, my eyes fixed on the standby light of the television.

David had me dress in a short, translucent white silk robe. It was gossamer-thin, clinging to my softer, paler curves. As I looked in the hallway mirror, I realized I looked like a ghost of a bride: a stark, shimmering contrast to the dark shadows David cast in his heavy black priest's robes.

The drive through downtown Ann Arbor was a blur of low-resolution streetlights. When we pulled up to the old stone cathedral, my heart hammered against my ribs, not with the fear of the girl who used to pray here, but with a frantic, addictive anticipation.

This is it, I thought, my mind spinning in small, tight circles. The Great Worship. I’m going to see Her in the stone. I’m going to be seen.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and unwashed bodies. The pews were filled with fifty men, a sea of black hoods that made my white silk robe feel like a spotlight. At the altar stood Bishop Angela. She was magnificent in robes of deep, arterial crimson, her eyes sharp and predatory, her hair long and black.

I felt a brief, flickering phantom of my old self, the Sunday School girl, shuddering at the desecration of the altar. But it was quickly drowned out by a wave of righteous heat. He was a weak God, I told myself, my thoughts echoing the Goddess’s purr. He asked for my soul, but She gives me the Fire. She destroyed his house because She is the only one who deserved it. And She is welcoming me into it!

Angela stepped down, her heels clicking like hammers on the marble. She reached out, her fingers catching the lapel of my white robe.

"A little lamb in white," she teased, her voice a sultry, commanding vibration. She leaned in close, her breath smelling of expensive wine and copper. "Do you know why we kept you on the edge for so long, Ella? Why we let you want until your mind turned to static?"

"To... to serve?" I stammered, my pupils blown so wide the world was mostly shadow.

"To make you a supernova," Angela whispered. She looked at the congregation, then back at me. "Tonight, Ella Marie, the training ends. Tonight, you break the Fourth Commandment. Tonight, you will finally, finally cum… and we will consecrate your marriage to Her church."

A jolt of pure, electrified ecstasy shot through me. I’m allowed? My mind screamed with a joy that was almost painful. After months of the 'walk back,' months of frustration and blubbering on the floor, the idea of release felt like the promise of heaven. Yes. Oh, thank the Goddess, yes! I will be the Feed. I will be the Porn!

She led me to the cold marble altar. David took his place at my head, his hands steady and clinical as he helped me out of the white silk, leaving it in a heap like a discarded skin.

"Ten," Angela thundered, her voice echoing into the rafters. "THOU SHALL BECOME PORN!"

The fifty men stood. “Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant! Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud!” the Latin chant erupted, a guttural roar that seemed to make the very floorboards weep. As the first of the congregation stepped forward, I didn't look at their faces. I didn't need to.

Bishop Angela was holding the camera. I looked at it and then I locked my eyes on the high-def screen they had mounted above the crucifix. I saw my face: pale, wanton, eager.

And then I saw his face. It was David, his cock hard and in his hand. He smiled down at me and I saw all this through the screen as Angela zoomed in on my slick pussy. I watched, then felt, as my husband finally pushed his cock against my vaginal hole… and then it disappeared inside.

“OH!” I groaned. I was finally being fucked! I was no longer a virgin and the realization was so intense that it magnified my arousal by a factor of ten. Here, in front of the congregation, for the Internet where the video would be posted before the sun rose again, I was losing my virginity on the altar of the church my Goddess had stolen.

Hands. Suddenly there were hands roaming over my body. On the screen I watched as two men each grabbed a breast, squeezed them, pulled on my nipples. The sensation was too much and I almost came, finally, but then David pulled out of me and I whimpered my displeasure.

On the screen: the two men had their own cocks out. I knew what I was expected to do. I’d seen enough porn by now to know how to become it. I reached out with either hand and grabbed a cock in each. The first cocks I’d ever handled, belonging to strangers whose faces I could not see.

But the screen showed all.

David was about to plunge himself into me again. I glanced over and stared into the camera as he did. Suddenly I felt stuffed like never before. I cried out and moaned as inch after inch of his cock pressed inside me. My husband, finally taking what was his!

I came.

There’s no way to describe the eruption of pleasure that racked my body. Months of pent up energy was suddenly released and I cried out to the heavens as I writhed upon the altar and the congregation continued it’s chant:

“Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant! Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud!”

My orgasm came suddenly but didn’t go away quite as fast. I remembered to stroke the cocks I had in each hand the way I’d watched David stroke his so many times, even as my legs kicked out and my tongue lolled out of my mouth. I was drooling, whimpering, bucking. Sobbing with relief and pleasure and even pain. I felt like I was being slammed against a stone wall, finally breaking through it, only to slam into another.

Then he was out of me, and I felt empty, but within seconds another cock had taken his place. David’s, meanwhile, was at my mouth and I knew that in porn, the woman sucked it. And so I tried, but instead I received a massive load of his cum in my wide open mouth instead as David finished himself off on my face.

It was all so sublime. So perfect. I could feel the presence of Goddess Porn like never before. And his cum tasted so delicious! Hot and creamy and tangy and just so, so divine.

The man fucking me now was no David. His cock wasn’t nearly so big and he didn’t last nearly so long. But that was okay. There were 50 cocks in this church right now.

One of the men I was jerking off came, and did the same thing David had done, pulling my hand away so that he could finish himself off on my face. Before I knew it I had another cock in that hand.

On and on it went. I kept staring up at the screen as Angela recorded every inch of my initiation, of my marriage to the Church of Porn. I was Porn now, glorious Porn! Cum stained face, cocks in each hand, in my pussy.

For hours it went on and I have no idea how many orgasms I experienced. Perhaps it was just the one drawn out over eight hours of endless fucking. 

I am the Screen, I thought near the end*. Watch me. So many are going to watch me and give Her power while edging to me!*

The thought made me so happy. So delirious. And in a strange way… so sad.

***

I don’t remember the drive from the cathedral. I only remember the weight of the silence, a heavy, velvet curtain that fell over my mind the moment the chanting stopped. My body felt like it had been hollowed out by a storm, left buzzing and raw and tingling and spent.

I didn't go home to the house in Ann Arbor. Instead, David delivered me to a gated estate on the outskirts of the city: Bishop Angela’s sanctuary. The high bishop was clearly very wealthy.

"The Little Bride needs to be cleansed," Angela whispered, her hand cool and firm on my shoulder as she led me into a bathroom that was larger than my childhood bedroom. It was a temple of black marble and gold fixtures, centered around a deep, sunken tub already steaming with fragrant, milky water.

She undressed me with the practiced ease of a mother, though there was nothing maternal in the way her eyes cataloged every bruise and every stain on my translucent skin. I stood there, a 23-year-old ghost, as she guided me down into the warmth.

The water felt thick, almost oily, as it swirled around my softer, un-toned curves. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, my head lolling back against the marble rim.

"There she is," Angela purred, picking up a sea sponge and beginning to scrub my arms with slow, rhythmic strokes. "The supernova is cooling down."

"David..." I croaked, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "Is he... still my husband?"

Angela chuckled, a dark, melodic sound. "David is legally your husband, yes. But you are the church’s bride, make no mistake. If you’re worried he’ll be jealous, he won’t. David doesn't feel pride anymore, Ella Marie. He doesn't feel much of anything outside of the Worship. He’s a perfect soldier. But he wasn't always that way."

I blinked, trying to focus on her through the steam. My mind, sluggish and circular, caught on the word soldier.

"He was just like you, little lamb," Angela said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. She moved to my back, scrubbing the base of my neck where the 'itch' always started. "He was a champion. An elite. Twenty-two years old and destined for the Olympics in judo. He lived a life of steel and discipline. He was 'pure' in his own way: devoted to his body, to his sport, to a girl back in his hometown who looked quite a lot like you."

I felt a phantom spark of the old Ella. "What... happened?"

""He broke,” she said, her voice like a razor. “A training accident took his knee, his career, and his identity all in one afternoon. He was a vessel that had been emptied of its purpose. So, we found him. Porn found him. As he healed he spent more and more time worshipping, though he didn’t call it that yet. Before long he cared more about Goddess Porn than his sweetheart.

“It’s always easier for men to find their way to Her than it is for women,” she sighed. Her hand was between my legs now, gently rubbing it with a soft sponge, cleaning away the semen, the stains. “Soon David was as commited to gooning as he’d ever been to judo. Eventually we learned of him, of his obsessive worship, and showed him the Screen. We showed him that his discipline was pleasing to a power he did not even know existed."

She leaned over my shoulder, her crimson robes dipping into the water. "Of a sudden, it was too real for him. He panicked. He fought us. He cried for his false God. He tried to run. But the Goddess loves a challenge. We dismantled him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a hunger only She could satisfy.

“We didn't steal him, Ella,” Angela purred. “He came to us. Then we simply rewrote him. Made him sink deeper until all he cared about anymore was worship and obedience to our Goddess."

I stared at my reflection in the gold-plated faucet. My blue eyes looked back at me, wide and vacant, the pupils still struggling to retract. The news that David was a 'rewritten' man should have terrified me. It should have made me want to scream.

But as the warmth of the bath and the silkiness of the water took hold, all I felt was a strange, hollow relief. If a man like David, strong, disciplined, golden, could be taken so easily, then there was no shame in my own surrender. My struggle hadn't been a failure of will; it had been a delay of the inevitable.

"You're luckier than he was," Angela whispered, her lips brushing my ear. "He had to be broken. You... you are being cultivated. You have David to lead you. You have me to hold you. You aren't a victim, Ella Marie. You're a masterpiece in progress."

She stood up. “David can channel some of Her power. For a man that is quite the feat. It’s why he’s a priest. But I see more of Her divinity in you and eventually, if your brain doesn’t devolve into mush, I will teach you real power.”

Real power? I wondered. My brain sure felt like mush already. Just then I saw her beauty, the mystery of her eyes, the wonders of her skin, her perfect form, her everything. Angela truly was powerful. She glowed with Goddess’s energy, a golden aura illuminating her figure, transfixing me, owning me.

And her very presence just then was making me horny the way the Screen did.

"The itch is coming back, isn't it?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have to. The silence of the room was already starting to grate against my nerves. The 'real world' was fading again, becoming that low-resolution blur. I looked at the steam on the mirror and saw the tenth commandment written there in my own mind: Thou Shall Become Porn.

David appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. I stepped out of the tub, dripping and shivering, and walked toward him. I didn't ask to go home. I didn't ask to see my parents.

"Is the Screen ready?" I whispered.

"It's waiting for you, Ella," he said, his voice serene and empty.

I followed him out of the mansion, leaving the ghost of the girl from Ann Arbor in the bathwater. I was a Goonette Bride, and the training was only just beginning.

THE END

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. I'm sorry if its ending seems abrupt; I had plans for five chapters but this story's reception has been muted, to say the least. Very few upvotes, practically no comments, and a whopping three DMs. As I've stated time and again, I write to be read. And I'd rather spend my free time working on a new story people might actually read than stubbornly continue this failed one.

For what it's worth, I've enjoyed writing this story. I don't feel it was a waste of my time and I hold no bitterness over its failure. I simply want to move on to my next project, one that will hopefully garner more engagement from the community.

Again, thanks for reading and for your support. I'll see you in the next one!

-Dr. W000

The Goonette Bride

By u/DoctorW000

Summary (spoiler): >!On her wedding night, a young woman's dream of a romantic getaway turns into a waking nightmare when her new husband reveals himself as a priest in a dark, supernatural cult. !<

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it less than entirely consensual.

****

^(Chapter 1) ^(| Chapter 2 -this one- |)

Chapter 2: Gooning as Prayer

The world had reduced itself to a single, pulsing point of light.

I didn’t know how long I had been in the chair. My internal clock was shattered. There was only the strobe-light flicker of the 100-inch screen and the wet, rhythmic sounds of the pornography playing in front of me: the moaning, the groaning, the slapping of skin that had become my only lullaby.

My eyes burned. They felt like they were filled with hot needles, yet I couldn't blink. The supernatural lock David had placed on me was a physical weight holding my eyelids open, forcing me to drink in every frame of the high-definition filth. It was an endless strobing, flashing, unadulterated injection of porn directly into my brain. The so-called "pure" girl I had been, a Christian girl who had waited until marriage to have sex yet remained a virgin still, was drowning in a sea of graphic imagery I didn't have the tools to process.

I tried to count the meals to track the passage of time. But it was difficult remembering how many had come and gone. It was getting difficult to remember anything!

Still, I tried. David would appear out of the shadows of the cabin every few hours. He was a silent spectre in his black robe. I would blubber at him sometimes, trying to form words, to say what I did not know. He always ignored me. All he would do was hold a bowl of lukewarm, salty oatmeal to my lips. It was a thick, gray gruel that had a strange, musky tang I couldn't identify. I swallowed it because I had to. I swallowed it because my body was starving even as my mind was being fed to the Goddess.

One bowl. Was that breakfast? Two bowls. Was that the second day? In that state, I couldn't have known it had been seventy-two hours. My mind was screaming that it had been weeks or months, that the world outside the cabin had probably ended and only the Screen remained. I tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer:

“Uh-our fuh-father, who art in heh-heh-heaven, hallowed be th-thy name…”

I never made it much further than that. The words of the Lord’s prayer were getting hard to even remember much less recite. Instead I just heard the chanting ringing in the recesses of my mind: “Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant. Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud.”  These words were being burned into my brain, fulfilling Goddess Porn’s will.

My yoga-toned muscles were no longer a source of pride; they were a source of agony. My core was stiff, my legs were numb, and my back was a map of fire from being strapped to the wooden chair. Yet, between my legs, there was a constant, buzzing heat. It was a physical itch, a craving that I didn't want but couldn't stop. What I really wanted was to be touched there, to have someone scratch that itch. But my arms were still bound to the chair so it couldn’t be me, and David seemed content to merely stare at it when he fed me my gruel.

My mental defenses were in shambles. When David appeared I stopped trying to beg for release and instead I just waited for the spoon. As he wiped a stray drop of the salty gruel from the corner of my mouth, I didn't flinch. My skin didn't crawl with the revulsion it should have felt. I was just... tired. 

I was also becoming addicted, I know that now. I noticed when he would sit in front of me to feed me my gruel he’d block out the Screen entirely. At one point and suddenly, I was confused. Scared. Ten minutes without the porn and I was sweating, my brain in a panic. I was a junky waiting for the next hit of dopamine that the screen provided, and when it came, I felt normal again.

"You're doing so well, Ella," he whispered one day, his voice still the same gentle David I had married. "The transition is almost complete."

Finally, I heard the metallic clack of the restraints being undone.

My wrists fell to my sides, heavy and useless. When he unbuckled my ankles, he tried to help me stand but my legs simply slid to either side and I fell, hitting the floor like dead weight. I tried to stand by my own power, to use the strength I’d built through years of discipline, but my knees buckled instantly.

Collapsed onto the cold floor, my naked, unblemished skin pressing against the hardwood, the panic returned. My eyes hurt. I could suddenly close my eyes again, I could blink again. And on the back of my eyelids I saw the burnt in images of hardcore pornography. I found myself thankful for that. But these after images weren’t enough.

David didn't reach down to help me up. He didn't offer a hand to his bride. He just stood there, a dark pillar in the flickering light of the endless candles.

I didn't try to crawl toward the door. 24-hours earlier I might have, but my brain was different now. So instead, my fingers clawed at the floorboards as I dragged myself closer to the 100-inch screen. It was the only source of warmth in the world and I wanted it to fill the entirety of my vision.

Once I was close enough I knelt back on my elbows, spread my legs wide, and stared at the images on the screen in front of me from a closer vantage than before. I was acting on pure instinct and with pure desperation. And I did something I’d never done before, something that would have disgusted the old me. But I had been craving it for hours and days and months now:

I touched myself.

All I did that first time was drag my trembling finger along the length of my labia, but it was enough. Three days of pent-up arousal was suddenly released. The orgasm hit me like a freight train, and I whimpered as though struck with a whip. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I began to rub my clitoris, then I tried to slip a finger inside myself. It was so warm and damp but there was an obstruction.

David began the chant again: “Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant. Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud.”

I glanced over and saw him there staring down at me. I looked at him with desperate confusion on my face. My brain, sluggish and tired and extremely aroused, couldn’t figure out what the problem was.

Another voice joined the chanting and glancing to my left I saw another hooded figure in a long black robe. Then a third voice from behind me, then another, and finally one last voice, the most intense voice, the most earnest voice: “Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant. Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud!”

As I gently rubbed the obstruction I suddenly realized what it was: my hymen. My cherry. The gift to my husband I had intended to give him on our wedding night. The gift I’d kept whole all my 23 years. I couldn’t break it myself, surely. Or could I? I didn’t want to. But didn’t I want to more than anything?

I stared up at David, a questioning look in my blue eyes. He was holding his hands up, palms facing me, and I thought I could see a dark orange glow around them. The color changed to a darker orange, and then, finally, red.

““Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant. Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud!” the fifth voice said, a feminine voice, a desperate voice as I pressed my finger against my hymen with all my might.

I was that fifth voice, I knew it now, and with that realization came the translation, which I all but shouted: “Those who watch give Her power! There is only Porn, there is nothing else!”

How I knew the translation I can’t say. I am sure I screamed it out first, but then the other voices switched to English as well just as I felt my hymen begin to tear. I sobbed and shuddered. The glow of the red halos around David’s hands filled the room now, overpowering the images on the Screen, which I stared at as my finger finally pushed into my vaginal canal.

I was so hot, so tight, so wonderfully damp. My vagina squeezed my finger like a welcoming handshake and it radiated waves of pleasure as it did. I began to plunge my finger in and out, deeply in then all the way out, then some time with my clit, then back in, my eyes fixed on the porn playing in front of me, my mouth still shouting the words, those wonderful truths, “Those who watch give Her power! There is only Porn, there is nothing else!”

Now I shuddered and fell back as the orgasm made that first one seem like a tiny wave compared to the tsunami I’d just experienced.

How long I laid there I don’t know. But when the panic settled in again I sat back up, stared at the screen, and began masturbating. Goddess Porn had rewarded me with this carnal pleasure and I loved Her for it. I wanted to give Her power. I wanted to watch.

There was only porn. There was nothing else. 

***

"And now you're gooning," David’s voice drifted down to me. It was calm, almost reverent, like a priest acknowledging a successful sacrifice.

"Yes," I gasped, my voice a ragged shred of its former self. I was on my knees, my red hair a matted, damp curtain around my face. My blue eyes were wide, fixed on the strobe-light assault of the 100-inch screen with a hunger that was starting to feel more like a need for oxygen than a want for pleasure.

I was 23-years old. I should have been starting a life of tennis matches and church socials and planning a family. Instead, I was kneeling in the blood of my own innocence, worshiping a flickering wall of filth.

I heard the heavy tread of several pairs of feet on the porch. The other voices from before? I didn’t care. They felt like ghosts compared to the reality of the Screen. I was too transfixed to look toward the door as David and two others dragged a new object into the center of the room. It was a massive black leather recliner, its surface crisscrossed with intricate white stitching. At first glance, it looked like lace; at second glance, the patterns were revealed as unholy symbols intertwined with the graphic outlines of bodies locked in every imaginable position.

"Sit," David commanded.

I ignored him, my hand moving in a frantic, desperate blur between my legs. I was so close. The tsunami was coming.

"Ab acie regredere."

I didn't move, but my body did. I felt David’s large hands seize me with his casual strength. He hoisted my sweating, naked frame into the air as if I were a doll and deposited me into the deep, plush embrace of the chair. Still, I couldn’t move. I was locked again. David smiled down at me and waved his hand in a strange pattern and suddenly I could move again.

The leather chair was cold and instantly, it reacted. As I tried to resume my frantic pace, wanting to feel my insides again and play with my clit until I had that wonderful orgasm, I felt a magnetic, supernatural pull. My hands were jerked away from my body and slammed back onto the armrests. I fought, my muscles straining until they screamed, but my wrists were locked to the leather by an invisible force.

The walk back from the edge began.

It wasn't a sudden stop. It was worse. I felt the heat between my legs start to tingle, then tremble, as if the energy was being slowly siphoned out of me. I sobbed, my hips bucking against the chair, my large breasts heaving as I begged to cum, begged for the release that was only inches away.

"Please!" I blubbered, the word dissolving into a mess of spit and grief. "David, please... let me finish... I have to... I have to!"

"You have to want," he corrected, leaning over me. His face was framed by the red glow of the ritual halos. "A Goonette’s power is in the wanting. You empower the Goddess when you want. When you desire. When you are desperate."

The trembling in my nerves grew faint. The tsunami receded into a flat, gray tide. I was still aroused, my skin was sensitive, my core was throbbing, but the possibility of an orgasm was dead. I slumped into the leather, my begging turning into low, rhythmic pants of pure exhaustion.

As the silence of the walk back from the edge took hold, a new voice began to speak in my mind. It wasn't my voice. It was the Goddess. It was a deep and sultry voice, kind and dangerous, loving and commanding and feminine and strong. 

One by one, Her commandments began to spill out of my mouth, replacing the prayers I could no longer remember.

"First commandment," I whispered, my eyes locked on a scene of three men on one woman. "Thou shalt have no other gods before Her."

"Second commandment," I continued, my voice growing stronger as the chair's supernatural grip finally loosened, allowing my hands to move again. "Thou shalt not look away."

"Third commandment," I gasped, my fingers diving back to my slick, aching center the moment I was released. "Thou shalt edge until your soul is thin."

“Fourth commandment,” I whined, sobbing now at this commandment, this horrible commandment: “Thou shall always goon but never cum.”

The commandments kept coming. Five: Thou shall worship Goddess Porn whenever possible. Six: Thou shall induct others into the Church. Seven: Thou shall help others worship. Eight: Thou shall serve. Nine: Thou shall consume.

And finally, ten, which I nearly shouted. I was so close to cumming again and so afraid that the chair would stop me once more. I screamed: “THOU SHALL BECOME PORN!”

The chair did what I feared and my arms snapped down against the armrests again. All I could do was whimper.

David smiled, a terrifyingly serene expression. "Again, Ella. You give Her your power. Our goddess is grateful."

Our goddess was grateful. I took some small comfort in that.

***

The training lasted until my mind was a frayed wire.

I’d been awake for nearly ninety-six hours now. For at least the last 20 of those hours I’d been in the chair, caught between the screaming need for release and the crushing weight of the 'walk back.'

"It’s time for sleep now, Ella," David whispered, his hands lifting me out of the chair.

I was too weak to struggle, but I tried. I wanted back in the chair. I murmured, “No… the Screen, David… please?”

“Shh,” he whispered, carrying me to our bedroom. “Don’t worry, love. Your dreams will be Porn.  Your dreams will be Her.”

He was right about the dreams. My subconscious had been indoctrinated so completely that there was only porn. There were no memories of my parents, no dreams of college graduation or tennis matches. There was only the Goddess, her sultry voice echoing in a void of high-definition imagery. I dreamt in strobe lights. I dreamt in the rhythm of the goon.

When I woke fourteen hours later, I felt a strange, terrifying clarity. The fog had lifted just enough for my old self to claw its way back to the surface. I was Ella Marie Churdon again. I was a Christian, a college graduate, and I was being held captive by a lunatic!

I stood up, my athletic legs shaky but holding. What should I do? I had to leave. Or should I call the police while I had the chance? I looked for my phone. My suitcase was there and I tore through it, but couldn’t find my device. I grabbed some random clothes: blue jeans, a sleeveless top, socks. No shoes. Darn it.

I dressed with my eyes glued to the doorknob, expecting it to turn at any moment, for David to be waiting there with another syringe.

He wasn’t. Instead I could hear him humming. I slowly opened the door and tip-toed down the hall. When I reached the kitchen I dared to peak and, sure enough, there was my husband, humming as he flipped pancakes on the griddle.

Without ever looking at me he said, “Don’t be afraid, love. There’s nothing to be scared of anymore. Are you hungry? I’m making your favorite: blueberry pancakes and avocado toast.”

I didn’t say anything. The food did smell wonderful but no, I had to leave. Very carefully I entered the kitchen. “Where are the keys?” I said, voice shaking with fear and fury. “Where’s my phone?”

“You may have both, of course.” He looked at me with that same serene smile. “Won’t you eat first?”

"No. No, David. No, I don’t want anything from you!” I said, my rage overtaking me. I stomped over to him, refusing to be intimidated. “Not anymore! You hear me? I don’t know what was in that needle or what kind of drugs were in that disgusting oatmeal you served me, but it’s over. I’m getting a divorce. I’m going to the police. You’re going to rot in a cell for what you did to me!"

“Semen,” he said, a slight smile still plastered on his annoyingly handsome face.

“What?!”

“You wanted to know what was in the oatmeal,” he said. “Semen. Cum. From the male members of our congregation. We’ve been preparing for you for some time so quite a lot was produced. In fact, I still have half a gallon left. Would you like some for your pancakes instead of the usual maple syrup?”

I stared at him, my stomach roiling with revulsion. I tried to speak, couldn’t. Finally I managed, “You’re… insane!”

He didn't flinch. He didn't even look angry. He simply reached into his pocket and tossed a set of keys onto the counter. They slid across the granite with a cheerful metallic ring.

"Look, Ella, the training has prepared you," he said softly. "We’ve done what the Goddess wanted. But you have free will, of course. She gives us all a choice. So if your old life is truly what you want, if your God is stronger than the gooning, then go. Drive back to Ann Arbor. Divorce me. Call the cops. Forget the Goddess, and the Screen, and never masturbate ever again.”

Part of me feared it was a trick. I reached out toward the keys, my eyes locked on his. When I grabbed them he simply smiled. 

I felt a surge of triumph. I was stronger than whatever drug-induced brainwashing they had subjected me to. I was stronger than him and his fellow cultists. 

"Have a nice life, freak," I muttered, walking quickly away from him and out of the kitchen. 

I stormed out the front door, the morning air of Deepdark Lake hitting me like a physical blow. It was cold and gray, the mist clinging to the pine trees. I marched toward our SUV, my shoeless feet stinging on the gravel. I felt like a hero in a movie, the survivor escaping the lair, and part of me wanted to cry out to the heavens, to thank my god for deliverance from this evil cult. But I was anxious to get away, to be on the road back home. I tried to pray my thanks silently instead, but I was too anxious for that, too.

Anxious. That’s why I couldn’t thank my god, why I couldn’t pray. Anxiety. I didn’t let myself dwell on it but deep down I understood this was a lie.

I climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door, locking it instantly. I took a deep breath, ready to turn the key.

Then the silence hit me.

The woods were too quiet. The air was too still. There was no hum. No strobe. No chanting.

Suddenly, a prickling sensation started behind my eyes. It crawled down my neck and settled in my marrow. It was the itch. It was a physical withdrawal so violent my hands began to shake against the steering wheel. I looked at the dashboard. I looked at the dark, glass screen of the car’s navigation system. It was blank.

Thou shalt have no other gods before Her.

The commandment echoed in my head, not as a whisper, but as a physical command. I tried to remember a prayer, but all I could see were the images from the Screen: the vivid, raw power of the Goddess. The real world looked faded, like a low-resolution photograph. It was ugly. It was empty. It was nothing compared to the fire I’d been living in the past five days.

I stared at the ignition. I could turn it. I could drive away. But my brain felt like it was being starved of oxygen. I needed the dopamine. I needed the hum. I needed to watch.

A sob broke from my throat. Not a sob of fear, but of absolute, crushing desperation. I wasn't Ella Marie anymore. I was a vessel. And the vessel was empty.

I didn't turn the key. I slumped against the wheel, weeping as I realized the purity I’d fought to remember was just a ghost.

One last time I tried to pray. “Our father…” I started. But my mind was a total blank. I couldn’t remember another word of the Lord’s Prayer, not a single one! After a lifetime of reciting it every Sunday at church, it was gone. Out of my head. What kind of god would let that happen?

A weak one. Her voice was in my head, purring, consoling, taunting.

“Those who watch give Her power,” I murmured. “There is only porn… there is… nothing else…”

I reached for the door handle.

***

David was standing on the porch, his arms folded, watching me with a patient, knowing gaze. I didn't say a word as I walked past him, my head down, my body vibrating with a need that eclipsed my soul.

I didn't go to the bedroom. I didn't go to the kitchen. I walked straight back to the black leather chair and stripped off my clothes without fanfare. I sat down, the symbols on the stitching feeling like home, and I waited.

"Commandment One, Ella?" David asked, his hand on the remote.

"Thou shalt have no other gods before Her," I whispered, my fingers already reaching for myself.

The 100-inch screen flared to life, and for the first time, I wasn't a prisoner. I was a devotee.

END OF CHAPTER 2

Thank you so much for reading! Since this story explores some unusual (for me anyway) territory, your feedback means the world to me. If you’re enjoying the journey so far, please leave a comment, an upvote, and/or a direct message. Knowing there’s an audience on the other side is what keeps the inspiration flowing!

The Goonette Bride

By u/DoctorW000

Summary (spoiler): >!On her wedding night, a young woman's dream of a romantic getaway turns into a waking nightmare when her new husband reveals himself as a priest in a dark, supernatural cult. !<

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it less than entirely consensual.

****

Chapter 1: Wedding Night

“We’re not going to have sex tonight.”

It was the first thing David said to me after carrying me across the threshold into the large lakeside cabin. My arms were draped around his neck, me still in my wedding gown, him in dark navy-blue slacks and the white button-down. He was smiling, as was I, but was clearly tired.

Must have been tired. Must have been exhausted if he didn’t want to finally have sex with me, right?

My heart plunged with disappointment. I’d insisted we drive here this very night, four hours from Ann Arbor to Deepdark Lake, because I wanted to lose my virginity where we had first met three years earlier. I wanted it to be perfect, for everything to be perfect.

As he set me down I frowned. “Are you really that tired?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, probably sounding a little annoyed. “I know it’s late but–”

“Time has nothing to do with it,” he said, closing the door. There was something in his tone that sent goosebumps up my arms. David normally had the kindest, warmest, gentlest voice. Now it had grown cold and ((aggressive? Harsh? something?)).

He turned to face me and that’s when I saw it: a syringe held in his left hand.

“What’s that?” I said, taking a step back, the woosh of my pure-white dress filling the otherwise tomb-quiet room.

“I’m not going to lie, Ella,” he said, taking a step toward me. “You’re not going to like what I have to show you tonight. That’s what the sedative is for.”

I took a step back. “Sedative?” I asked, my voice rising an octave. “David, what the heck is going on?!”

He stared at me for a moment, licking his lips. That and the feral meanness in his eyes made him look like a complete stranger. The fact I was danger finally registered in my confused brain. Adrenaline began pumping through my veins, my heart pounding, my breathing short.

Silence hung in the air between us. I took another step back.

David and I were both in fantastic shape, but his exercise was from running and judo; mine from tennis and yoga. If he reached me he could render me immobile in seconds, and even if I ran he would reach me. I didn’t break eye contact with him as I took another step back, my mind racing to solve an unsolvable puzzle: how to escape?

But this was ridiculous! This was my true love, a kind man, a brilliant man. He would never, ever hurt me. Would he?

Stammering slightly I said, “David, you’re scaring me!”

This time when I took a step back he lunged forward. I shrieked as instinct made me turn to flee even though I knew it was too late. In moments he had both my arms behind my back, then dropped me to the floor, my wedding dress cushioning the fall. I kicked but only for a moment as his leg wrapped around mine, and suddenly, I could barely move.

“You’re going to hate this at first,” he whispered into my ear as the needle sank into my arm. “But by the time this weekend is over you’ll understand the truth.”

I lost consciousness.

***

Consciousness didn't return all at once; it bled back in through a thick, heavy fog. My first sensation was cold: a sharp, biting draft against my skin that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Then came the pressure. My wrists and ankles felt raw, bound tightly to the hard wooden frame of a chair.

I tried to blink, but my eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead. When they finally fluttered open, the world was a nightmare of flickering orange and artificial blue. Dozens of candles were scattered across the room, their flames dancing in the draft, casting long, ghoulish shadows against the cabin walls.

But the candles weren’t the source of the real light.

Directly in front of me stood a massive 100-inch screen. It hummed with a low-frequency vibration that I could feel in my teeth, in my heart, in my mind. It was alive, this vibration, and I felt it pulling me somewhere. It wanted my attention, needed it, and I felt… and I felt…

"David?" I croaked. My throat felt like it was filled with sand.

A figure moved into the space between me and the screen. He was dressed in a heavy, hooded black robe that swallowed his athletic frame, making him look like an ancient shadow. He didn't answer. Instead, he began to pace, his voice a low, clinical drone.

"Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant..."

The Latin words were rhythmic and cold. I hadn’t ever studied Latin and didn’t realize he even knew a single word of the ancient language. As he spoke, the giant screen behind him flickered to life. It didn't show a movie; it looked like a massive, distorted video call, a mosaic of dozens of faces. Men and women of all ages, their eyes wide and unblinking, their mouths moving in perfect unison with David’s. It was eerie, disconcerting, upsetting.

"Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud," they chanted, the sound coming from the speakers in a discordant swell that felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.

The horror of my nakedness finally hit me: the vulnerability of my toned, unblemished body exposed to these strangers and a recording camera. My large breasts heaving as panic made me gasp and whimper. My pussy, its coppery red curls neatly trimmed just for David, exposed. No man had ever seen me naked before now, not even David. No one, actually, outside of a doctor’s office or the lockerroom. Tonight was supposed to be a night of such firsts.

And so it was, only not how I had hoped. I opened my mouth to scream, to plead with my husband, but the sound died in my throat.

Suddenly, my mind wasn't mine anymore.

Images began to flash behind my eyes, not memories, but scenes I had no context for. I’d spent my life in a small town, at a private Christian college; I’d never even seen a suggestive movie, let alone this. Yet, the images were there: vivid, hardcore, and terrifyingly graphic. Men having sex with women, but not making love. No, the proper word was fucking. Men fucking women, women fucking men. Two men on one woman, three women with one man. Penises in mouths, plunging into vaginas, anuses.

Where could such images have come from? I’d never even heard of most of the things I was now seeing clearly in my mind. They felt like a foreign language I could somehow understand. And the more I understood, the louder the chanting got, the more I felt a tingling between my legs and a rising heat within my body.

"David, stop!" I sobbed, twisting against the ropes, my yoga-toned muscles straining until they burned.

He didn't stop. He didn't even look at me. He just kept chanting, his eyes fixed on the camera, as the faces on the screen watched me struggle, their voices rising in a feverish, supernatural crescendo.

***

David finally stopped his pacing. He turned to me, pulling back the hood of his robe. His face was the same one I’d fallen for at the lake: strong jaw, kind eyes, the small scar on his chin from a judo tournament. But his expression was terrifyingly serene. It was the look of a man at prayer, but the "God" he was communicating with felt like a void.

Behind him, the dozens of faces on the screen remained, their chanting dropping to a low, rhythmic thrum—a background hum that vibrated through the floor and up into the chair, settling deep in my pelvis.

"Ella," he said, his voice as warm and comforting as it had been during our vows. "I know you’re confused. I know you’re scared. You’ve lived your life in the light of a different church, a smaller truth. But there is only one church, Ella, the Church of our Goddess Porn."

His words stunned me. "David, please," I whimpered, the cold air hitting the sweat on my skin. I thought of my parents, of the small chapel back home where the sunlight filtered through clear glass. I thought of the purity ring I’d worn for six years, the pale circle of skin on my finger where it had been replaced by a wedding band that now felt like a shackle. "This isn't you. Please, this is some kind of... of sick joke. We’re Christians, David! We believe in…"

"We believe in devotion, Ella," he interrupted, stepping closer. He looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my exposed, heaving chest, and the copper curls he had once promised to cherish. "And there is no greater devotion than what we call ‘gooning’. Our congregation, millions strong, are full of devoted gooners and goonettes. And you will be one too.”

I sobbed.

“You see, Goddess Porn has been with us since the beginning. Ever since the first neanderthal masturbated while watching two others fuck, She has existed. She is the shadow in the garden, the pulse in the blood. She is carnal power incarnate, and She loves us all. Down through the centuries She has grown in strength and now, in this modern era with the Internet and a billion screens, She is more powerful than ever."

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. "It's... it's just pictures, David. It's just… people sinning, it’s disgusting..."

"No, my dear. My dear, sweet Ella, it’s not disgusting at all. It is beauty. It is Her power, Her energy," he corrected softly, reaching out to stroke my hair. I flinched, but his touch was steady. "Those who watch give Her power. When we goon to porn we fall under Her sway, tapping into Her greatness. It is our highest calling: to goon to Her. To edge to Her. You will know.”

“You will know,” the voices behind him said in unison.

I whimpered. The heat between my legs was real, now, and I had an awful thought about what was happening, what was about to happen.

He smiled. “But then there are those who are watched... they are Her vessels. Her favorite children. And you were chosen, Ella. Not just for your beauty, but for your innocence. To the Church, there is no greater gift than a blank canvas to be written upon. Goddess Porn loves corrupting the innocent to bring them into Her divine plan. She led me to you for that very purpose, Ella. You are blessed more than you can possibly imagine right now.

“You will be a goonette but you will also become Porn Herself."

The chanting from the screen suddenly spiked in volume, a sharp, dissonant chord. At the same moment, the images behind my eyes, the plunging, the thrusting, the raw, wet sounds of 'fucking', became blindingly bright.

I felt a sudden, violent jolt between my legs, an explosion of energy. It wasn't the slow, sweet build-up I’d imagined for my wedding night. It was a psychic lightning strike. My yoga-trained core, usually so disciplined and under my control, buckled. My back arched against the chair, my pale breasts straining against the air, as a wave of unwanted, overwhelming pleasure crashed through me. It was a physical betrayal so deep I felt my soul scream.

I climaxed with a broken sob, my body shaking in the grip of a supernatural force I couldn't fight. It was a hollow, terrifying peak that left me gasping and emptied.

David didn't move. He waited for the tremors to subside, then stepped behind me. I felt his large, warm hand settle firmly on the top of my head, tilting my face forward. He held it tightly and said something in Latin and I felt a thrum of energy wash through me and then… stillness.

I could not move. I couldn’t even blink.

"The sermon is over, Ella Marie," he whispered into my ear. "Now, the training begins."

My eyes, heavy and tear-streaked, locked onto the 100-inch screen. I tried desperately to move, to look away, to squeeze my eyelids shut, but I couldn't. Some invisible weight held my gaze captive. The mosaic of faces vanished, replaced by a rapid-fire assault of high-definition, hardcore pornography.

The images moved so fast it was like a strobe light. I couldn't process them, couldn't categorize them, but I couldn't stop watching. My mind began to go numb, the 'Church girl' I had been receding into the dark corners of my brain, leaving only the screen, the light, and the Goddess.

END OF CHAPTER 1

Thank you so much for reading! Since this story explores some unusual (for me anyway) territory, your feedback means the world to me. If you’re enjoying the journey so far, please leave a comment, an upvote, and/or a direct message. Knowing there’s an audience on the other side is what keeps the inspiration flowing!

The Goonette Bride

By u/DoctorW000

Summary (spoiler): >!On her wedding night, a young woman's dream of a romantic getaway turns into a waking nightmare when her new husband reveals himself as a priest in a dark, supernatural cult. !<

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it less than entirely consensual.

****

Chapter 1: Wedding Night

“We’re not going to have sex tonight.”

It was the first thing David said to me after carrying me across the threshold into the large lakeside cabin. My arms were draped around his neck, me still in my wedding gown, him in dark navy-blue slacks and the white button-down. He was smiling, as was I, but was clearly tired.

Must have been tired. Must have been exhausted if he didn’t want to finally have sex with me, right?

My heart plunged with disappointment. I’d insisted we drive here this very night, four hours from Ann Arbor to Deepdark Lake, because I wanted to lose my virginity where we had first met three years earlier. I wanted it to be perfect, for everything to be perfect.

As he set me down I frowned. “Are you really that tired?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, probably sounding a little annoyed. “I know it’s late but–”

“Time has nothing to do with it,” he said, closing the door. There was something in his tone that sent goosebumps up my arms. David normally had the kindest, warmest, gentlest voice. Now it had grown cold and ((aggressive? Harsh? something?)).

He turned to face me and that’s when I saw it: a syringe held in his left hand.

“What’s that?” I said, taking a step back, the woosh of my pure-white dress filling the otherwise tomb-quiet room.

“I’m not going to lie, Ella,” he said, taking a step toward me. “You’re not going to like what I have to show you tonight. That’s what the sedative is for.”

I took a step back. “Sedative?” I asked, my voice rising an octave. “David, what the heck is going on?!”

He stared at me for a moment, licking his lips. That and the feral meanness in his eyes made him look like a complete stranger. The fact I was danger finally registered in my confused brain. Adrenaline began pumping through my veins, my heart pounding, my breathing short.

Silence hung in the air between us. I took another step back.

David and I were both in fantastic shape, but his exercise was from running and judo; mine from tennis and yoga. If he reached me he could render me immobile in seconds, and even if I ran he would reach me. I didn’t break eye contact with him as I took another step back, my mind racing to solve an unsolvable puzzle: how to escape?

But this was ridiculous! This was my true love, a kind man, a brilliant man. He would never, ever hurt me. Would he?

Stammering slightly I said, “David, you’re scaring me!”

This time when I took a step back he lunged forward. I shrieked as instinct made me turn to flee even though I knew it was too late. In moments he had both my arms behind my back, then dropped me to the floor, my wedding dress cushioning the fall. I kicked but only for a moment as his leg wrapped around mine, and suddenly, I could barely move.

“You’re going to hate this at first,” he whispered into my ear as the needle sank into my arm. “But by the time this weekend is over you’ll understand the truth.”

I lost consciousness.

***

Consciousness didn't return all at once; it bled back in through a thick, heavy fog. My first sensation was cold: a sharp, biting draft against my skin that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Then came the pressure. My wrists and ankles felt raw, bound tightly to the hard wooden frame of a chair.

I tried to blink, but my eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead. When they finally fluttered open, the world was a nightmare of flickering orange and artificial blue. Dozens of candles were scattered across the room, their flames dancing in the draft, casting long, ghoulish shadows against the cabin walls.

But the candles weren’t the source of the real light.

Directly in front of me stood a massive 100-inch screen. It hummed with a low-frequency vibration that I could feel in my teeth, in my heart, in my mind. It was alive, this vibration, and I felt it pulling me somewhere. It wanted my attention, needed it, and I felt… and I felt…

"David?" I croaked. My throat felt like it was filled with sand.

A figure moved into the space between me and the screen. He was dressed in a heavy, hooded black robe that swallowed his athletic frame, making him look like an ancient shadow. He didn't answer. Instead, he began to pace, his voice a low, clinical drone.

"Qui spectant Ei potentiam dant..."

The Latin words were rhythmic and cold. I hadn’t ever studied Latin and didn’t realize he even knew a single word of the ancient language. As he spoke, the giant screen behind him flickered to life. It didn't show a movie; it looked like a massive, distorted video call, a mosaic of dozens of faces. Men and women of all ages, their eyes wide and unblinking, their mouths moving in perfect unison with David’s. It was eerie, disconcerting, upsetting.

"Sola est Pornographia, nihil aliud," they chanted, the sound coming from the speakers in a discordant swell that felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.

The horror of my nakedness finally hit me: the vulnerability of my toned, unblemished body exposed to these strangers and a recording camera. My large breasts heaving as panic made me gasp and whimper. My pussy, its coppery red curls neatly trimmed just for David, exposed. No man had ever seen me naked before now, not even David. No one, actually, outside of a doctor’s office or the lockerroom. Tonight was supposed to be a night of such firsts.

And so it was, only not how I had hoped. I opened my mouth to scream, to plead with my husband, but the sound died in my throat.

Suddenly, my mind wasn't mine anymore.

Images began to flash behind my eyes, not memories, but scenes I had no context for. I’d spent my life in a small town, at a private Christian college; I’d never even seen a suggestive movie, let alone this. Yet, the images were there: vivid, hardcore, and terrifyingly graphic. Men having sex with women, but not making love. No, the proper word was fucking. Men fucking women, women fucking men. Two men on one woman, three women with one man. Penises in mouths, plunging into vaginas, anuses.

Where could such images have come from? I’d never even heard of most of the things I was now seeing clearly in my mind. They felt like a foreign language I could somehow understand. And the more I understood, the louder the chanting got, the more I felt a tingling between my legs and a rising heat within my body.

"David, stop!" I sobbed, twisting against the ropes, my yoga-toned muscles straining until they burned.

He didn't stop. He didn't even look at me. He just kept chanting, his eyes fixed on the camera, as the faces on the screen watched me struggle, their voices rising in a feverish, supernatural crescendo.

***

David finally stopped his pacing. He turned to me, pulling back the hood of his robe. His face was the same one I’d fallen for at the lake: strong jaw, kind eyes, the small scar on his chin from a judo tournament. But his expression was terrifyingly serene. It was the look of a man at prayer, but the "God" he was communicating with felt like a void.

Behind him, the dozens of faces on the screen remained, their chanting dropping to a low, rhythmic thrum—a background hum that vibrated through the floor and up into the chair, settling deep in my pelvis.

"Ella," he said, his voice as warm and comforting as it had been during our vows. "I know you’re confused. I know you’re scared. You’ve lived your life in the light of a different church, a smaller truth. But there is only one church, Ella, the Church of our Goddess Porn."

His words stunned me. "David, please," I whimpered, the cold air hitting the sweat on my skin. I thought of my parents, of the small chapel back home where the sunlight filtered through clear glass. I thought of the purity ring I’d worn for six years, the pale circle of skin on my finger where it had been replaced by a wedding band that now felt like a shackle. "This isn't you. Please, this is some kind of... of sick joke. We’re Christians, David! We believe in…"

"We believe in devotion, Ella," he interrupted, stepping closer. He looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my exposed, heaving chest, and the copper curls he had once promised to cherish. "And there is no greater devotion than what we call ‘gooning’. Our congregation, millions strong, are full of devoted gooners and goonettes. And you will be one too.”

I sobbed.

“You see, Goddess Porn has been with us since the beginning. Ever since the first neanderthal masturbated while watching two others fuck, She has existed. She is the shadow in the garden, the pulse in the blood. She is carnal power incarnate, and She loves us all. Down through the centuries She has grown in strength and now, in this modern era with the Internet and a billion screens, She is more powerful than ever."

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. "It's... it's just pictures, David. It's just… people sinning, it’s disgusting..."

"No, my dear. My dear, sweet Ella, it’s not disgusting at all. It is beauty. It is Her power, Her energy," he corrected softly, reaching out to stroke my hair. I flinched, but his touch was steady. "Those who watch give Her power. When we goon to porn we fall under Her sway, tapping into Her greatness. It is our highest calling: to goon to Her. To edge to Her. You will know.”

“You will know,” the voices behind him said in unison.

I whimpered. The heat between my legs was real, now, and I had an awful thought about what was happening, what was about to happen.

He smiled. “But then there are those who are watched... they are Her vessels. Her favorite children. And you were chosen, Ella. Not just for your beauty, but for your innocence. To the Church, there is no greater gift than a blank canvas to be written upon. Goddess Porn loves corrupting the innocent to bring them into Her divine plan. She led me to you for that very purpose, Ella. You are blessed more than you can possibly imagine right now.

“You will be a goonette but you will also become Porn Herself."

The chanting from the screen suddenly spiked in volume, a sharp, dissonant chord. At the same moment, the images behind my eyes, the plunging, the thrusting, the raw, wet sounds of 'fucking', became blindingly bright.

I felt a sudden, violent jolt between my legs, an explosion of energy. It wasn't the slow, sweet build-up I’d imagined for my wedding night. It was a psychic lightning strike. My yoga-trained core, usually so disciplined and under my control, buckled. My back arched against the chair, my pale breasts straining against the air, as a wave of unwanted, overwhelming pleasure crashed through me. It was a physical betrayal so deep I felt my soul scream.

I climaxed with a broken sob, my body shaking in the grip of a supernatural force I couldn't fight. It was a hollow, terrifying peak that left me gasping and emptied.

David didn't move. He waited for the tremors to subside, then stepped behind me. I felt his large, warm hand settle firmly on the top of my head, tilting my face forward. He held it tightly and said something in Latin and I felt a thrum of energy wash through me and then… stillness.

I could not move. I couldn’t even blink.

"The sermon is over, Ella Marie," he whispered into my ear. "Now, the training begins."

My eyes, heavy and tear-streaked, locked onto the 100-inch screen. I tried desperately to move, to look away, to squeeze my eyelids shut, but I couldn't. Some invisible weight held my gaze captive. The mosaic of faces vanished, replaced by a rapid-fire assault of high-definition, hardcore pornography.

The images moved so fast it was like a strobe light. I couldn't process them, couldn't categorize them, but I couldn't stop watching. My mind began to go numb, the 'Church girl' I had been receding into the dark corners of my brain, leaving only the screen, the light, and the Goddess.

END OF CHAPTER 1

Thank you so much for reading! Since this story explores some unusual (for me anyway) territory, your feedback means the world to me. If you’re enjoying the journey so far, please leave a comment, an upvote, and/or a direct message. Knowing there’s an audience on the other side is what keeps the inspiration flowing!

A Sister’s Slavery: Sadie Makes Amends

By u/DoctorW000

Summary: Hunter’s younger sister is desperate to stay sober, but making amends for all the hurt she’s caused will require more than an apology. It will require a year of her life as his slave.

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it incestuous and less than entirely consensual.

****

^(|) ^(Chapter 1) ^(|) ^(Chapter 2) ^(|) ^(Chapter 3) ^(|) ^(Chapter 4) ^(|) ^(Chapter 5) ^(|) ^(Chapter 6) ^(|) ^(Chapter 7) ^(|) ^(Chapter 8) ^(|) ^(Chapter 9) ^(|) ^(Chapter 10) ^(| Chapter 11 -this one- |)

Chapter 11: The Ghost of Caroline

Hunter sat in his office, the glow of three monitors illuminating his face in a pale, flickering blue. On the center screen, the "Amends_Contract_SADIE" folder was open, its contents a meticulous library of his sister’s fragmentation. 

The contract had one week remaining. Seven days until Sadie’s amends were technically complete. He had to decide if and how he was going to let her go; how and whether he would engage the deletion protocol.

A soft chime from the front door’s smart lock broke his concentration. He wasn’t expecting anybody and the hour was late. He checked the security feed.

Roma was standing on the porch.

She wasn't dressed in the soft, approachable cardigans she wore as Sadie’s sponsor. She wore a sharp, concrete-gray trench coat, her expression devoid of the practiced warmth he’d seen through Sadie’s choker. Hunter felt a sudden, uncharacteristic spike of adrenaline: not excitement, but the cold, sharp instinct of a predator realizing he might be being hunted.

She shouldn’t be here, he thought. 

He opened the door. Playing dumb he said, “I’m sorry ma’am, but it’s late and whatever you’re–"

"Cut the bullshit, Hunter. I know you know who I am,” she interrupted, stepping past him into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. “And I know who you are and what you’ve been doing to your sister." 

Hunter closed the door, his mind racing through contingencies. "I’m not sure what you mean. Sadie’s progress is…"

"Stop," Roma said, turning to face him. Her voice was flat, absolute. The voice of an Admin. "I know about the 'Slutty Sadie' persona. I know about the hotel room with your uncle, the baseball game, the dog walks. I know about her red choker, too, but most of all and most importantly I know about the way you’ve been systematically erasing her identity and replacing it with ones of your own creation."

For a moment, Hunter considered the physical distance between them. He wondered if he could silence her before she left the house. But even through his panic he knew that would be foolish. Whatever evidence this woman had collected would no doubt be hidden on external servers. Besides, he was not a murderer. His odds of success would be small.

Then, Roma smiled. It was a thin, jagged thing that didn't reach her eyes.

"Relax, Hunter," she said, sensing his tension. "I’m not here to call the police. I’m here because I want to thank you. You’ve done more to destroy that girl in a year than my original plan could have achieved in a decade.'"

Hunter’s eyes narrowed. "Thank me? Wait. What… original plan?”

She turned and slipped her trench coat off her shoulders, hung it on the coat rack. He followed her into the living room but when she took a seat on the sofa he didn’t join her. She said, “Long periods of sobriety interrupted by devastating relapses. Forging a need from her to seek me out for help each time. Forcing her to do things under the pretense of ‘recovery’ that would actually make her sink deeper into her own misery. And then eventually, and through her own actions, my original plan would have led her to the, well… inevitable.” She shrugged.

Hunter was gobsmacked. “But… why?”

“Revenge,” the older woman said. Her voice dropped to a whisper and Hunter had to lean in to hear. "Do you know who Caroline was to me?"

Hunter froze. The name was a ghost in his system, the girl whose death had started this entire chain of events. "She was the girl Sadie... the girl who overdosed."

"She was my daughter," Roma hissed, the clinical mask slipping for a heartbeat to reveal a well of pure, concentrated vitriol. "My only child. Sadie led her back to an addiction she had escaped. She broke my poor girl. And then your sister watched the life go out of her eyes while she waited for her own high to peak. Sadie didn't just kill her; she abandoned her."

The silence in the foyer was deafening. Hunter looked at Roma, not as Sadie’s sponsor, not as an attractive middle-aged woman, but as the architect of a vengeance he hadn’t even realized he had hindered.

"When you ruined my plans, I adapted them. Why do you think I kept steering the cunt back to you?" Roma asked, her smile returning, sharper now. "After every relapse you forced her into, I was there reassuring her that she should trust you. When she expressed doubts I told her that was her disease talking. When she talked about moving out of your house I told her you were her only path to redemption. I was the one who whispered poison and lies into her ear, all to the benefit of your own plans. Wasn't I?"

Hunter felt a slow, dark warmth spread through his chest. He wasn't in trouble. He was in a partnership. "You’ve been maintaining the asset from the outside while I worked the interior."

"Exactly," Roma said. "But the contract is almost up. You’ve accomplished great things but you’ve had your fun. What were you going to do now? Keep her? Or kick her to the curb?"

It was exciting being able to discuss this with another person. He said, “I’m tempted to keep her. Her personas are perfected now and she sates my every desire. However, ruining her has taken its toll. My work has suffered. And I have longterm plans for another female that her presence would make difficult.”

“So… the curb?”

He nodded. “Probably a deletion of all her personas save one, then expulsion from this house.”

“Will she have your forgiveness?”

He tilted his head, confused by the question. “Does it matter?”

“It does. After all it’s what she’s been seeking this entire time. She’s been so easily manipulated because she’s desperate to make amends for her past sins. If that goal isn’t reached it could negatively impact my new plan, Hunter.” 

“And what is your new plan?” he asked.

Her smile sharpened into a wolfish grin. She leaned in and whispered the details of her plan. And as Roma spoke, the clinical coldness in Hunter’s mind shifted into a new kind of excitement.

***

The television was a kaleidoscope of sweat, flesh, and manufactured moans. Two women, one man, all locked together in erotic embrace as the movie reached its final act.

Slutty Sadie didn’t care about the plot. Attractive though they were she didn’t even care about the people on the screen. She cared about the order. Hunter had told her to watch, and Hunter had told her to touch herself, and the rhythm of his commands was the only thing that kept the static in her brain from becoming a scream.

She lay on the rug in his room, her breath hitching in time with the flickering light. When the orgasm finally came, it was as welcome as a gasp of air after drowning. The orgasm was all encompassing and gave her purpose. Something to strive for, something to seek out. For Slutty Sadie there could be no higher goals than to obey her brother and give her body carnal pleasure.

Breathing heavily she lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, her mind drifting in the warm, shallow waters of post orgasmic bliss. She was smiling.

The door opened.

She didn't move to cover herself. Slutty Sadie had no modesty; she was an asset, and assets didn't need privacy. She expected Hunter. She expected him to look at her with that clinical, evaluating gaze and tell her if her performance had met the current standards.

And Hunter did walk in. But he wasn't alone.

A woman followed him. She was older, dressed in a pale yellow blouse and tight gray slacks. Slutty Sadie tilted her head, confused. She recognized the face—it was etched into a part of her brain she couldn't quite reach, like a corrupted file. But the Slutty Sadie persona had no data on this woman.

"See?" Hunter’s voice was light, almost conversational. He gestured toward Sadie’s naked, sprawling form on the rug. "Utterly compliant. The 'Degenerate' has been completely overwritten, replaced with this creature who knows no shame or regrets."

The woman (Roma?) didn't look disgusted. She looked at Sadie with the same cold intensity a jeweler might use to inspect a flaw in a diamond. "She looks... empty."

"She’s just confused by your presence. Now watch how easy this is," Hunter whispered.

He stepped toward Sadie and snapped his fingers. It was a sharp, Pavlovian sound that cut through the pornographic soundtrack. "Sadie. System check. Why don't you try being sober?"

The command hit like a physical blow.

Behind Sadie's eyes, the gears shifted. The warm, hazy fog of the Slutty persona was sucked away, replaced instantly by the cold, biting clarity of Recovery Sadie. The change was visible in her posture; her muscles tensed, her spine straightened, and the vacant, glazed look in her eyes snapped into a sharp, horrified focus.

She saw the TV and what was on it. She saw her own nakedness. Her hand was still between her legs and she could feel warmth and wetness there. She’d been masturbating! And then, her gaze drifted up to the woman standing next to her brother.

"Roma!"

The name was a sob. Recovery Sadie scrambled backward, her heels skidding on the hardwood as she tried to find something, anything, to cover herself with. Her sponsor. Her savior. The woman who represented every ounce of goodness she was trying to claw back into her life. Her confessor, the woman who knew all her secrets, had just seen her masturbating to filth! It would almost be better if she’d seen her drunk instead.

"Roma, I… I’m so sorry… I don’t know why… where… Hunter! Please!” She looked at her brother, her eyes pleading for a lie, for an explanation, for a way out of the crushing weight of this shame.

"Stay," Hunter commanded.

Sadie froze. Despite her shame and panic she no longer wanted to escape. The Recovery persona was still bound by the same hard-coded obedience as the others. She sat on the floor, trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, covering her bare breasts, her legs squeezed together, trying to hide her sex. She stared at Roma’s shoes, eyes glassy and lip trembling.

"You've been very bad, Sadie," Roma said. Her voice wasn't the warm, nurturing tone Sadie remembered from the meetings. It was sharp, like a needle. "All that work. All those promises. And here you are, behaving like a degenerate."

"I'm sorry," Sadie wailed, the tears starting to track through the makeup Slutty Sadie had applied. "Please, Roma, don't give up on me. I'll do anything. I'll make it right."

"Will you?" Roma reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, clear bag. Inside was a syringe. "Do you recognize this needle, Sadie? It’s the same one that went into my daughter’s arm the night she died. The night you let her die."

Sadie’s breath hitched. “Caroline?” she whispered. The voice she didn’t like to hear, the one that the fog kept at bay. Caroline. “You’re… you’re her… mom?”

"Drink," Hunter said, holding out a glass of amber liquid.

Sadie looked at it, back at the woman, and didn't hesitate. She took the glass with shaking hands and gulped it down, the alcohol burning its way through her self-loathing. She welcomed the burn. She welcomed the relapse. Everything had just become too much.

I let her die, she thought.

“More?” she whimpered.

She avoided Roma’s gaze, and the bag, and the syringe as she gulped down a second glass of whiskey.

"Now," Roma said, stepping closer and kneeling until she was eye-level with the trembling girl. She held up the syringe. "The final amends. A life for a life."

Sadie looked at the needle. She didn't see a drug. She saw an exit. She saw the only way to finally stop the noise, to finally pay the debt that had been crushing her since the night Caroline went cold.

"Yes," Sadie whispered, baring her arm, her eyes fixed on Roma with a terrifying, desperate hope. "Please. Just... make it stop."

***

Hunter watched the girl on the floor.

Recovery Sadie was gone. She had been replaced by something much more primitive: a creature of pure, vibrating terror and desperate, alcohol-soaked compliance. The way she had bared her arm for the needle, eyes wide with the hope of an ending, was the ultimate validation of his work. He had successfully convinced her that she was a broken machine, and that the only repair possible was her own destruction.

A sudden thought hit him like a bolt of lightening: I can forgive you, now.

And it was true, he realized. All the anger and hate he’d been carrying for the last year, ever since she’d confessed to her crimes against him, suddenly felt petty and small. This girl had been ready to die just now, eager to die, even. The pain and programming he’d put her through had succeeded far beyond his wildest imaginings.

He was ready to let go.

He looked at Roma. She was still kneeling, her thumb tracing the rim of the syringe. She looked like a scientist who had just confirmed a long-held theory.

"Impressive," Roma whispered, standing up. "She’s completely hollowed out. There’s no resistance left."

"The 'Recovery' persona was the final firewall," Hunter said, his voice full of professional pride and a profound sadness he couldn’t quite understand. "By bringing you here…. you, the symbol of her virtue, of her hope… and forcing her to fail in front of you, forcing her to remember her darkest crime… it has utterly ruined her.

“She’s ready to die. She has given up on everything."

He walked over to the TV and switched it off, the sudden silence in the room feeling heavy and clinical. He looked down at his sister. She was huddled in a ball, her skin pale, the two glasses of whiskey already beginning to dull the sharp edges of her panic.

"Sadie," Hunter said, his voice a low, resonant frequency. "System override. The Audit is over. The amends are accepted. Your contract, fulfilled."

Sadie’s looked up nervously. Through the tears and the drunken haze, a flicker of something like light appeared in her eyes. "Accepted?" she whispered, disbelief running through each syllable of the simple word.

“Yes, sweetie,” Roma said, kneeling down next to her. “You’ve made your amends to your brother. Now you have to make amends to me.”

Sadie looked confused. 

“I want to watch,” Roma said to him after standing back up. “What are you waiting for?”

Hunter grimaced. He almost didn’t want to do this now, no matter what his hardening cock thought. But a deal was a deal. 

“Sadie? Let your mind go quiet. Quiet as a statue.”

Sadie’s body went strangely still. It was as if he had reached into her chest and turned a key. The shivering stopped. The sobbing subsided into a rhythmic, shallow breath.

"Lay down," Hunter commanded. "And pretend to be asleep. Be a Statue for me and for Roma."

Sadie obeyed instantly. She rolled onto her back, her limbs going completely limp. Her eyes remained open for a heartbeat, staring into nothingness, before the lids drifted shut. She looked like something carved from marble, or perhaps something prepared for an autopsy.

Hunter looked at Roma. "She won't move. She won't speak. She won't even remember this."

"Good," Roma said, her eyes fixed on Sadie’s abdomen. "Because this isn't about her pleasure, or even her pain anymore."

“I know,” Hunter said with a sigh. 

He scooped the pliant girl up into his arms and carried her over to his bed. He laid her down gently, lovingly, the way he did when she was acting as his wife. But this wasn’t that: this was a down payment for Roma’s silence.

The evidence she’d collected had been massive. She’d shared much of it: photographs of them together as drinking buddies. Her as his dog, walking in the park. Her leaving the motel with their uncle’s semen still on her pretty face. How many private investigators Roma had hired to collect such a complete portfolio of his audit was unclear. What was clear was that the woman had more than enough evidence to ruin his reputation and possibly even have him face criminal charges.

And so, with only the vaguest sense of erotic desire, Hunter began the act. Having sex with his sister in front of an audience should have felt transgressive, but with Roma watching, it felt like a demonstration. He was the technician, Roma was the client, and Sadie was the hardware. He felt a surge of cold, intellectual power. He wasn't just satisfying a desire; he was fulfilling a contract. He was planting the seed of Roma’s vengeance.

Sadie, of course, didn’t so much as move a muscle the entire time. Thankfully she was still damp from having masturbated for nearly an hour, but it felt like fucking a doll. Like she was a fleshlight sex toy and he was only using her body to masturbate himself. 

That idea churned a deep, dark feeling inside him. There was something about her being so completely an object, such a worthless thing rather than a human being, that made his desire swell.

“Plant it deep,” Roma said, her voice both commanding and eager.

He glanced over at the older woman, saw that her eyes were locked on where his cock was stuffed into his sister’s pussy. He thrust again, and again, and then groaned. One last thrust and he held himself all the way inside her as his cock began to pump his seed into his sister’s womb.

When he was finished, he stood up and adjusted his clothes, looking down at the unmoving Sadie on the rug.

"The fertility drugs," Roma said, her voice cutting through the silence, “will help speed the process. But you will need to visit both to plant your seed and to help me mold her newest and best persona yet.”

Hunter nodded. "And the goal?"

"I told you, Hunter. A life for a life. She’s going to carry a child to term. She’ll make her amends to me as dutifully as she has made hers to you.”

Hunter sighed. He’d suspected as much. “Her contract ends in a week. You can pick her up then.”

“No.” Roma’s tone brokered no argument. She said, “She comes home with me tonight. Her new contract begins in the morning.”

He gritted his teeth, then exhaled, centering himself. This new data was difficult to process but wouldn’t be manipulated or deleted. He said, “Fine. But what happens after she does get pregnant? You kick her to the street, broken and miserable and now responsible for a baby on top of everything else?”

Roma’s smile was almost sweet. “No. Sadie is going to be a perfect, sober, healthy mother for nine months. Mother Sadie will be docile, compliant, and utterly devoted to me. And the moment that child is born, she’s going to sign the adoption papers. I will raise my new daughter, and Sadie will spend the rest of her life knowing she was just the incubator for my daughter’s ghost. She will have made her amends to me and I will let her go, just as you have."

Roma walked to the door, then paused, looking back at Hunter with a look of genuine respect. "I’ll text you when she’s in need of insemination. Now wrap her in that blanket and carry her out to my car like a good brother."

Hunter grudgingly did as he was told.

***

The water in the sink was warm and soapy, the kitchen lived in and rustic. It was a stark contrast to the clinical coldness of Hunter’s townhouse. Sadie moved with a slow, rhythmic grace, her hands scrubbing a porcelain plate with practiced precision.

She was sober. She had been sober for two hundred and forty-two days.

There was no Gold Fog anymore. There were no relapses, no secret bottles of whiskey, and no Slutty personas to hide behind. Roma didn't believe in fogs. Roma believed in clarity. She wanted Sadie awake, functional, and fully aware of the weight she carried: both in her mind and in her body.

Sadie looked down at herself. She was wearing a simple sleeveless top and a pair of gray panties. Her stomach was a vast, heavy mound that forced her to stand a few inches back from the counter. Every movement of the life inside her sent a ripple through her skin, a constant, physical reminder of the debt she was paying.

She was Mother Sadie now. It was the most stable persona Hunter had ever helped design: a version of herself built entirely around the concept of nurture and sacrifice. She didn't want for anything. She didn't dream of the outside world. She only thought of the child, and the woman who would soon take it.

The floorboards creaked behind her. Sadie didn't turn around; a statue didn't startle.

"Is the guest room ready?" Roma asked. Her voice was calm, maternal, and utterly terrifying. Pregnant though she was, Roma still believed in stern punishments for any failures. The criss-crossing of scars over her back was proof enough of that.

"Yes, Roma," Sadie replied, her voice a soft, level chime. "The linens are pressed. The bassinet is in place. Everything is exactly as you requested."

Roma stepped beside her, reaching out to rest a hand on the peak of Sadie’s belly. Sadie didn't flinch. She had learned long ago that her body was no longer her own; it was a leased asset, a biological factory working to settle a debt.

"You’ve done well, Sadie," Roma whispered. "You look so... healthy. So pure. Caroline would have loved to see you like this. Sober. Productive. Useful."

Sadie felt the familiar sting of tears, but she kept her eyes on the soapy water. The mention of Caroline no longer caused a panic attack. It only deepened her resolve. This was her purpose. She was the incubator for a ghost. She was giving Roma back the life she had taken, and in return, she was allowed to exist in this quiet, domestic vacuum.

She dried the last plate and set it in the rack. Her back ached with the strain of the third trimester, but she welcomed the pain. Pain was a metric of her amends.

"Roma?" Sadie asked softly.

"Yes?"

Sadie turned slightly, her hands cradling the underside of her swollen middle. "The delivery is so close. But you never let the doctor tell us the gender. You were so insistent on the surprise."

Roma’s hand tightened slightly on Sadie’s stomach. "Surprises are the best part of a long-form project, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Sadie whispered, a small, nagging fear finally finding its way to her tongue. "But... what if it isn't a girl? What if the baby is a boy instead?"

Roma’s expression didn't change, but her eyes– those cold, calculating eyes– seemed to darken. A slow, wolfish grin spread across her face, the same look she’d worn the night she and Hunter had finalized the contract in his living room.

"Well, in that case," Roma said, her voice dropping to a silken, predatory purr, "your amends will be incomplete, won't it? After all, Sadie, you owe me a daughter, not a son."

Sadie looked at Roma’s grin and felt the first cold shiver of the night. She looked back down at her stomach, thinking of the Mother persona, the injections of fertility drugs, and the endless nights of Hunter’s visits.

She realized then that the end of the road might actually be a loop.

"I understand," Sadie whispered, her voice disappearing into the quiet of the kitchen.

She turned back to the sink and began to wash the next plate. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

THE END

Thank you for reading! I want to thank everyone who took the time to upvote, comment, and send me private messages for allowing me to finish this story. Without your engagement I would have lost interest in writing this awhile ago. Please continue to do so not only with me but with any story you read and enjoy. All authors love feedback/engagement!

If you liked this story you might enjoy the other one I've posted, Tiffany's Tragic Return to Servitude.

I am currently in-between stories right now so if there's something you'd like to see me write next, please comment. You know my style by now so I trust any idea you have for me would be within my wheel-house.

Thanks again!

A Sister’s Slavery: Sadie Makes Amends

By u/DoctorW000

Summary: Hunter’s younger sister is desperate to stay sober, but making amends for all the hurt she’s caused will require more than an apology. It will require a year of her life as his slave.

******

The obligatory disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. This story contains graphic depictions of sex, much of it incestuous and less than entirely consensual.

****

^(|) ^(Chapter 1) ^(|) ^(Chapter 2) ^(|) ^(Chapter 3) ^(|) ^(Chapter 4) ^(|) ^(Chapter 5) ^(|) ^(Chapter 6) ^(|) ^(Chapter 7) ^(|) ^(Chapter 8) ^(|) ^(Chapter 9) ^(| Chapter 10 -this one- |)

Chapter 10: The Many Shades of Sadie

****************

SLUTTY SADIE 

Six weeks into the Amends Contract…

Hunter knew the man would be suspicious, which was why she had left her phone in the glove box of her car. It was the same reason she wasn’t wearing the crimson choker, and why she had walked through the lobby of the nondescript hotel without a single listening device. Hunter was certain Steve would search her, and a "System Test" of this magnitude required absolute, uncompromised trust.

Slutty Sadie wasn't drunk, either. She had declined the shot Hunter offered before she left the townhouse. Tonight, she needed her processor running at full capacity. She needed to be a perfect recording device, capturing every tactile detail, every whispered word, and every involuntary twitch of her subject to relay to her Admin later.

“If there’s ever a next time, we’ll record everything,” Hunter had told her as he adjusted her collar. “Tonight, you convince him you’re ok with everything he’s done to you. You make him believe you wanted it, and that you want more. He has to know this is not a setup.”

As the elevator rose to the third floor, Sadie checked her reflection in the polished brass doors. The outfit was a masterpiece of predatory bait: a pleated plaid micro-mini that barely covered her hips, a white button-down tied off high to expose her midriff, and knee-high white socks. She looked like a corrupted memory.

Private school. Her parents attempt to get her on the straight and narrow.

When the door to Room 308 opened, the smile that broke across Sadie’s lips was genuine. Her excitement was a physical hum in her chest. The Neon Blue Fog roared to life at the sight of her uncle, and the slave who had once trembled at the sight of her uncle was nowhere to be found. She wasn't a victim this time. She was an operative.

"Uncle Steve," she purred, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "You look nervous."

Steve was suspicious, it was clear as day. His eyes darting to her hands, to her skirt, looking for something. He made her turn around, his hands patting down the small of her back and the line of her thighs, ostensibly searching for a wire. Sadie giggled, leaning back into his touch, her body supple and inviting.

“No bugs, Uncle. Just me,” she whispered.

He offered her a drink from a plastic cup, but she gently pushed it away. “I want to be clear-headed tonight. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our time in the basement. I keep remembering every time we’ve been alone together over the years… how badly I treated you. Like when you paid for my time at the club, I was such a snob! I’m glad I got you off back then, despite everything, but tonight? Tonight I want to do it properly.”

The lie tasted like candy. By taking the blame for her own rudeness she saw the last of his defenses melt. It was the piece of evidence he needed to know he’d been right all along: she was attracted to him. She did like the way he touched her. Always. 

“You were a brat,” Steve grunted, his confidence returning with a vengeance. “Maybe you need a lesson in manners. My brother never spanked you growing up, did he? A shame. Maybe your life wouldn’t have turned out such a mess.

“Bend over the end of the bed.”

Sadie feigned nervousness, knowing that’d be what he wanted. But she also obeyed which he definitely wanted.

He pulled down her plain white cotton panties and smacked her right ass cheek with a resounding SLAP. Then again, and again. The swats he delivered weren't nearly as intense or clinical as her Admin’s corrections, but the Neon Blue Fog translated the stinging heat into pure, electric dopamine. She moaned on cue, feeding his ego, extracting the exact output Hunter wanted.

Next, he demanded her mouth. She dropped to her knees in front of him and fished his hard-on out of his pants. She worked with an expertise that left him breathless, her eyes locked on his as she took his length down her throat without gagging. Mentally she was memorizing the rhythm of his breathing, but physically she was getting incredibly aroused. Her panties were going to be soaked.

The blowjob didn’t last that long. He told her to stop, stand, and undress for him. This she did with fake shyness and the occasional giggle. When her breasts appeared she covered them with her hands. He told her to stop that. She did.

When he finally pulled her onto the bed, spreading her legs to explore her with a rough, greedy hunger, Sadie stayed focused on every touch, every lick of her pussy. She had to memorize it all, and so she panted and cooed but thought of nothing but his finger or his mouth, her thighs pulsing, legs kicking occasionally. He got her off twice, and Uncle Steve seemed to take great satisfaction in the way he could manipulate her body into pleasure.

Then it was time. He got on top of her and said, “This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Uncle Steve,” she breathed.

Sadie made all the right noises as he entered her and none of them were fake. Slutty Sadie got off easily and the taboo nature of this act only ramped up her arousal. The feeling of his cock stretching her tight pussy was exquisite. She felt so full, so wanton, so right.

It was biomechanical, Hunter would say. It was a field test. And it was a total success. But for her the best part was the complete and thorough fucking he gave her before finally pulling out and cumming all over her tummy.

When it was over, Steve stood up and began to dress, looking triumphant. “Let’s do it again sometime, baby girl,” he said, tossing a glance over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

“I’m counting on it,” she replied, still lying naked on the bed, the picture of spent, slutty satisfaction. She got up slowly, smiling lazily, and got dressed. Steve held the door open for her, then slammed it shut behind her.

The moment she got in her car she pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen, the Neon Blue Fog still making the world tilt in beautiful, jagged angles.

To: Admin

Subject: System Test 01

Status: Success. Subject trust fully established. Entry gained. No resistance encountered. Data cache full. Heading home for debrief.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, she caught her own eyes in the rearview mirror. They were bright, glassy, and entirely empty of regret. She was Slutty Sadie and she loved how freeing that was.

*********************

DRINKING BUDDY

Three months into the Amends Contract…

The heavy door of Chaplin’s swung open, and the smell hit her like a physical blow. Stale cocktail floor wax, cheap vanilla body spray, and the metallic, recycled tang of a struggling HVAC system.

Sadie’s stride faltered. Behind the adhesive itch of the fake mustache and the heavy polyester of the Verlander jersey, her heart was hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She hadn't breathed this air in two years. This room was a mausoleum of her lowest moments—a dark, sticky purgatory where she had once traded her dignity for painkillers and enough vodka to forget her own name.

She could feel the Amber Fog thinning, shredding like old lace in a gale. The ghosts of the Degenerate were everywhere: in the dim red glow of the side stages, in the predatory lean of the men at the bar, in the memories of hands that had groped her without permission.

“You are better than this, Sadie. Please, look at me...”

The woman’s voice was Caroline’s and it echoed so clearly in her mind that Sadie almost turned around. She was on the verge of a total system crash. The self-loathing was rising like bile in her throat, threatening to choke out the Buddy and leave the shivering junkie exposed in the middle of the room.

Hunter’s hand clamped onto her shoulder, his grip like a vice. He didn't offer a word of comfort. He simply steered her toward the main stage, forcing her into a front-row seat.

On stage, a woman named Destiny sauntered out to a heavy, rhythmic bassline. Sadie knew that walk. She’d shared a dressing room with that woman; she’d watched her cry over a broken heel and a deadbeat boyfriend. The Degenerate was screaming now, clawing at the walls of Sadie's skull, ready to break through.

Then, Hunter shoved a thick wad of five-dollar bills into her hand.

"She’s working, Buddy," Hunter’s voice was a sharp, clinical command. "Don't just sit there like a tourist. Support the local economy."

Buddy’s fingers closed around the cash. Destiny arched her back, spinning toward them, her face inches from Sadie’s disguised one. Sadie held her breath, waiting for the recognition, the look of disgust, the outing.

But Destiny just winked, saying, “Are some of those for me, handsome?”

Sadie realized then that the stripper only saw a guy in a Tigers jersey with a bit too much facial hair and a fistfull of $5 bills. She saw a "John" with some cash.

Sadie felt a strange, dizzying relief. If Destiny didn't see her, then the Sadie who had worked here truly didn't exist anymore. The Amber Fog surged back with a vengeance: thick, dusty, and smelling of beer. Sadie leaned back, her legs sprawling into a masculine V.

"Maybe a couple. You do nice work, sweetheart," Buddy growled, her voice a perfect, gravelly mimicry of her and Hunter’s father. She slipped two fives into Destiny’s g-string, her hand lingering just long enough to feel the heat of the skin she used to share a locker with.

***

By the time they were halfway through the first pitcher, the Degenerate was buried deep. Buddy leaned in close to Hunter, gesturing toward a girl on the side stage with a half-eaten chicken wing.

"Look at that one," Buddy slurred. "A real tubby. Why're they even letting 'er on stage? Ruins the view, man."

Hunter chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound. "Maybe she’s the 'before' picture, Buddy."

"Yeah, well, keep 'er in the back," Buddy grunted. She stood up, staggering slightly. "Gotta drain the lizard. Be right back."

The walk to the men’s room was the ultimate test. She stood at the urinal, the smell of bleach and old piss filling her nose, and clandestinely pulled out the special funnel hidden in her oversized jeans pocket. She used it, she got away with it. She emerged back into the bar feeling invincible. The fog was a golden wall now.

When a younger dancer in a red bikini tried to pivot toward their table, Buddy didn't flinch. She looked the girl up and down with a dismissive, proprietary sneer. "Look at the udders on this one, Hunt. Wanna bring 'er back to a farm and milk 'em good?"

The girl giggled, hoping for a tip, but Buddy just turned away to take another long pull of Labatt. "Nice try, cutie-pie. You look like Daddy just broke your heart yesterday and now you’re gonna get back at him by shaking your ass in my face. Not tonight."

She was repeating words that had been said to her back when. Words that stung. Words that hurt. But Buddy didn’t care.

***

The red-lit VIP room felt like a confessional where no one was seeking forgiveness. Hunter sat in the corner with a girl in blue, but his eyes were locked on Buddy.

Destiny joined them. As she began the lap dance, her hands moved over Buddy's chest, pausing for a fraction of a second as she felt the compression of the sports bra beneath the jersey. Her eyes flickered to the "mustache," then to Sadie's eyes.

Destiny knew. But Destiny was a pro who had been around the block enough to know that a girl in a costume had money just as green as a man’s. She leaned in, her breath hot against Buddy’s ear. "I like a girl who knows what she wants," she whispered.

She played the role, grinding her knee between Buddy’s legs with a rhythmic, brutal pressure. The Amber Fog turned a darker, electric shade of gold. Buddy moaned, her masculine grip tightening on Destiny’s hips. She wasn't an object; she was the one holding the object. She came with a sharp, desperate gasp, her eyes never leaving Hunter’s.

"Let's bring that one home," Hunter said as the music faded. The girl in blue looked annoyed, but Destiny smiled.

***

The doorbell at the townhouse rang twenty minutes later. Buddy answered it, her Tigers cap tilted at a rakish angle. Destiny stood on the porch, looking weary in a trench coat. Hunter stepped up behind Buddy, counting out $1,500 in crisp hundreds. He pressed them into the dancer's hand.

"She's all yours, Buddy," Hunter said, his voice dropping into that flat, clinical finality. "Bring her to your room. Have fun."

Buddy grinned, a wide, predatory expression that felt as natural as breathing. She took Destiny by the arm- this, the same woman who had once been her peer, and led her toward her bedroom.

"Come on, sweetheart," Buddy muttered. "Let's see what else you've got."

***

The Statue 

Four months into the Amends Contract…

When Sadie was a Statue, she took on many forms. In each, she was just a thing. An object without thought or pulse. She was nothing more than the marble from which her Admin chiseled out something useful.

In the foyer, she was The Valet. She stood rigid against the mahogany paneling, arms locked in a wide "V," palms upturned. Hunter never greeted her; he simply unloaded. First, the rain-damp trench coat draped over her left shoulder, then the heavy leather briefcase dropped into her hands. For hours, she was a hook and a shelf. The White Fog turned the lactic acid fire in her deltoids into a distant, buzzing data point. She didn't breathe for herself; she held her breath for the weight.

In the office, she was The Monitor Stand. She spent the long Michigan afternoons on all fours, back flat and stationary as a desk. He’d put a laptop on her back and a tablet on her ass, the heat of the processor seeping through her skin as he worked on his spreadsheets.

Sometimes he would even watch porn and jerk off while she remained perfectly still, the heat from the laptop between her shoulderblades and the tablet on her ass the only sign that she was alive. She wasn't a sister or a woman; she was the foundation upon which his data rested. 

In the media room, she was The Footrest. This was the quietest form. Hunter sat in his armchair, and Sadie was curled into a tight, flat-backed cube at his feet. With her ears plugged and eyes blindfolded, she existed in a total sensory void. She felt only the rhythmic vibration of the movie’s bass through the floorboards and the crushing, proprietary weight of his boots on her spine.

By the end of the year, the transitions between these forms had become seamless. She no longer felt the transition from girl to thing. She had learned the ultimate lesson of the Audit: things do not have thoughts. Things do not have memories. A footrest doesn't wonder when the movie ends; it simply supports the weight until it is moved.

***

RECOVERY SADIE

Six months into the Amends Contract…

“Well,” Roma said, her expression as severe as a schoolteacher’s. “I’m glad you’re being honest now. But last week you collected a one-year token, Sadie. You stood in front of the group. You’re going to have to confess the truth to every single person who was there.”

Sadie kept her face buried in her hands, the scent of the diner’s burnt coffee and the low hum of the late-night crowd doing nothing to ground her. She tried to retreat into a mental sanctuary, but the fog here was thin and brittle. It offered no warmth, no protection; it was a frost on the windowpane of her mind that let her see every ugly detail of her failure. Beneath the ice, a voice she didn't want to hear began to whisper: a voice that sounded like Caroline.

She looked up, her eyes jagged and red from two sleepless nights. “I know,” she whispered. “And… I will.”

“How did it happen?” Roma asked, leaning forward. “The relapse?”

The truth was, Sadie couldn’t remember the individual acts, only their aftermath. Sometimes she ‘came to’ while in the midst of drinking, only to black out. More often she’d wake up in the grey light of the townhouse with the metallic tang of a hangover in her mouth, finding empty vodka bottles or crushed beer cans tucked into her nightstand. It defied logic. She lived in a controlled environment; she hadn't touched her own bank account in months. She didn't have the opportunity to buy alcohol, let alone sneak it past her brother.

She explained the gaps to her sponsor, her hands shaking as she took a sip of coffee. “I told Hunter before I came to see you. I told him I was terrified I’d drink again. As always he was so supportive. He told me to come straight to you.”

“But you have less than twenty-four hours sober?”

Sadie nodded, a tear trickling through the smudged makeup on her cheek. “I’m not trying to make excuses, Roma. I know I’m responsible. But I sometimes wonder if… if something is wrong with my head. Like I have split personalities.”

Roma’s brow furrowed. “What makes you say that?”

“I lose track of time. I’ll be eating a dinner I don’t remember cooking, or I’ll find myself in bed reading the Big Book but I don’t remember laying down. Last week, we went to a movie. I remember the film, but nothing else. Not the drive, not the conversation. It’s like I’m being switched off and on.”

Roma reached across the table, her gaze pinning Sadie with a look of practiced, AA-tempered tough love. “Sadie, you don’t have split personalities. You have a disease that is cunning, baffling, and powerful. Our addict brains try to undermine our recovery by creating excuses. If you can convince yourself a ‘Jane Doe’ personality did the drinking, then you don't have to be responsible for it.”

“But the booze,” Sadie pleaded, her voice a fragile thread. “I never remember buying it.”

“Relapse blackouts,” Roma stated firmly. “Your addict brain sees an opening, procures the substance, and then erases the memory to protect the habit. It’s common when you aren't working a solid program. For example, have you made amends to your brother yet?”

“I’m trying,” Sadie muttered. “It’s been months. He said if I helped with the house, he’d forgive me. But lately… he’s so cold. I feel like he still hates me. I told him I wanted to leave, but he offered to pay off my debts if I stayed another six months.”

“No,” Roma scolded, the vehemence of the reproof making Sadie flinch. “Leaving is the addiction talking. By your own admission you’ve relapsed at least six times now, Sadie, and kept them secret. You are clearly not ready to be on your own. You need the structure of that townhouse. You need your brother's support. Stay. Do the work. Make the amends.”

Sadie felt a sickening mix of relief and despair. Relieved because her course was now clear. Despair because part of her did want to leave Hunter. That part, a part way deep down, thought he might be bad for her somehow. But she did need to make amends. She did need to work a good program if she ever wanted to stay sober.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”

***

An hour later, Sadie stumbled through the front door of the townhouse. The brittle fog of her recovery was already shattering, the guilt of her lies to the group feeling like a physical weight in her chest.

Hunter was waiting in the kitchen, bathed in the soft, warm glow of the under-cabinet lighting. He looked up from his laptop, his face melting into a mask of deep, fraternal concern.

“Sadie? You’re shaking,” he said, standing up and crossing the room. He took the coat from her shoulders with a proprietary gentleness. “Did the meeting help?”

“I… I told her,” Sadie sobbed, collapsing against his chest. “She knows I’m a liar, Hunter. I’m so broken. I don’t know why I keep doing this to you. To me. To her.”

“Shhh,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of her crimson choker, lingering just long enough to feel the pulse in her neck. “You aren't doing anything, honey. You’re just sick. But I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He led her to the sofa and pressed a glass into her hand. It was clear, smelling of juniper and cold clinical intent. It was gin: one of her favorite drinks. He said, “Drink this. It’ll settle your nerves so you can sleep. Then we’ll start over tomorrow. Day one. Again.”

Sadie looked at the glass, then up at his adoring, supportive eyes. Her mouth watered. She said, “I… don’t think I should… should I?”

He smiled in a reassuring, almost fatherly way. “You’re a raw nerve right now, Sadie. And you haven’t slept in two days. You’ve been sober less than 24 hours already, one little drink isn’t going to make things any worse. Quite the opposite: you’ll feel better, you’ll sleep well, and like I said, tomorrow we can start over again.”

Just then she felt a surge of love for him: the only man who truly understood how defective she was, yet was still willing to help. And his logic was, as always, infallible.

She tilted her head back and drank, the gin hitting her throat like a benediction.

As the Neon Blue Fog of Slutty Sadie began to spark to life, the last thing she saw was Hunter’s calm, neutral smile as he pulled out his phone to check the time.

***

Bust-her

Eight months into the Amends Contract…

The wind was a roar of freedom against her face, smelling of exhaust and the promise of a humid Michigan evening. Sadie- or rather, the pet- had her head thrust out the passenger window of the SUV, her tongue lolling out. The Pitch Black Fog she felt was a warm, velvet embrace, muting the complexities of language and the weight of human memory until all that remained was the simple, animal joy of the breeze.

She was in full regalia. The heavy leather collar felt comfortable, a familiar anchor. A golden tail-plug was seated firmly in her ass, and her hands and feet had been bound into tight, rounded "paws" with soft leather restraints that made standing or using her hands an impossibility. To the Pet, this wasn't a prison; it was a promotion. It meant she was no longer responsible for the heavy lifting of being a human woman.

The car slowed, pulling into a darkened parking lot of a small brick building. A sign in the window glowed with a green cross: Northwood Veterinary Clinic.

"Quiet, girl," Hunter murmured, reaching over to scratch her behind the ears. "We’re here for your check-up."

The Pet let out a soft, eager whimper, her tail-plug vibrating with a frantic wag. Hunter stepped out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and lifted her out. He put a lead on her collar and led her through the front door, which clicked shut and locked behind them. The lobby was empty, the air smelling of antiseptic and flea shampoo. There was no receptionist behind the front desk.

A middle-aged man in a white lab coat stepped out from the back. "Hunter. You’re right on time."

"Doctor Miller. Thank you for staying late," Hunter said, his voice flat and clinical. He walked into the examination room and hoisted his Pet onto the cold, stainless steel table.

The sound of her paws clicking against the metal echoed in the sterile room. She didn't flinch. She simply sat on her haunches, panting happily, her eyes bright and vacant as she looked at the man with the stethoscope.

Sadie was not here at all. Sadie might be scared or embarrassed. The Black Fog kept Sadie away and all that was left was Bust-her the Doggy.

"She looks healthy," Miller noted, his tone devoid of any irony or hesitation. "How has her temperament been?"

"Stable," Hunter replied, standing by her head. "A little restless sometimes."

Miller nodded, pulling a light from his pocket. "Open up, girl. Let's see those teeth."

Bust-her obeyed instantly, her jaw dropping open. She felt the doctor’s gloved fingers probing her gums, checking her muzzle with the same detached professional interest he’d show a stray.

"Good. No signs of stress-grinding," Miller said. He moved to the back, checking the placement of her tail and the tension in her "paws." He pressed his hands into her stomach, checking for blockages. The Pet let out a low, playful growl, her tongue licking the doctor’s hand.

"Down, girl," Hunter commanded.

She went still, her chin hitting the cold steel.

"I'd like to run a quick reflex test," Miller said. He took a small rubber mallet and tapped her knees. Her legs jerked, a pure biological response. "Excellent. And the final step... her annual booster."

He reached for a pre-loaded syringe on the counter. The needle caught the clinical light of the room. The Degenerate might have screamed, might have begged for her humanity, but Bust-her only watched with a curious tilt of her head. When the needle pierced her shoulder, she didn't cry out like a woman. She let out a sharp, high-pitched yip and immediately turned to lick the site of the sting.

"Good girl," Miller murmured, patting her flank. "She’s a fine specimen, Hunter. Best in show."

"She is," Hunter agreed, pulling out a thick envelope of cash and placing it on the table. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Did you hear that, Bust-her? The doctor says you're a very healthy girl. A perfect girl."

The Pet nuzzled into his neck, her whimpers filled with a desperate, animalistic gratitude. As Hunter lifted her to the floor, she felt a profound sense of peace. In this dark, quiet office, the world finally made sense. She wasn't a sister, a sinner, or a slave. She was just a lucky girl. She was just a dog.

A very good dog.

***

THE SLAVE

Ten months into the Amends Contract…

Sadie sat at the kitchen table, a thick, oversized photo album open before her and a black Sharpie in hand. The book was a professional masterpiece, bound in heavy leather, one of several identical copies Hunter had distributed as gifts during the biweekly family dinner the night before. It had taken two hours for the family to pore over them, a grotesque ritual of nostalgia where they studied each photo, dissecting the where and when of their shared history.

The final quarter of the book had focused on Sadie. It should have been agonizing; the pages were filled with photos of her in attire entirely inappropriate for a family archive: flattering but revealing, or captured in moments of obvious intoxication. But because she had been toggled into the Slave persona for the dinner, the awkwardness had felt distant, like a radio playing in another room. She had simply occupied her chair, sensing the thick tension from her parents and the predatory, lingering gaze of Uncle Steve as he lingered on the photos of her in various uniforms.

Now, she was performing the mandatory "edit" of her copy. Her instructions were precise: she was to black out the eyes of every person on every page. Everyone, that is, except for Hunter.

“Damn it!”

Her voice fell flat in the sterile silence of the townhouse. Hunter was out, which meant there was no one to hear her curse… or to witness the failure that caused it.

Panic flared, hot and sudden. She stared down at the glossy page. It was a photo of the two of them in front of a Christmas tree, a rare moment of genuine smiles. And she had blacked out one of his eyes.

She frantically rubbed at the spot with her thumb, then tried to whet it with saliva, but the high-quality paper was unforgiving. The ink only smeared, transforming a precise dot into a dark, ugly smudge that made her Master look like he was weeping ink.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” she whimpered. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she could already feel her skin crawl with phantom pain. It had been over a month since her last correction, which was the longest she’d ever gone. That last time had been for a minor maintenance error: ripping Slutty Sadie’s favorite G-string in the laundry. This was a sacrilege.

She considered the unthinkable: ripping the page out, hoping he wouldn’t miss it. But the moment the thought formed, the Grey Fog began to thin, exposing her to the biting cold of her own conscience. A slave cannot keep secrets. She was property. Property did not defy; it functioned. Shaking, her hands trembling so violently she had to grip the pen with both hands, she returned to the task. She focused every ounce of her being on the remaining pages, ensuring not a single speck of white remained in any other eye, and that she never again touched the untouchable gaze of her Master.

***

Hunter’s verdict was delivered with a terrifying, tightly controlled calm. He congratulated her on a “nearly flawless” execution, but the smudge on the Christmas photo was a corruption of the archive. It was a sacrilege that required a balancing of the books.

He led her to the bedroom, where a wooden X-shaped cross had been bolted to the wall months ago. It was equipped with heavy leather cuffs for her wrists and ankles and a stabilizing belt for her waist. Once she was stripped and secured, facing outward, Hunter set up his tripod. He pulled on the black hood, a ritualistic signal that the Brother who owned her was gone, leaving only the Admin.

Sadie hung there, naked and terrified. Facing outward was a psychological blow; it meant her breasts and stomach were the targets. She preferred the back or the ass, the pain there was vast, but it lacked the viscous, intimate sting of her front.

The whistle of the thin wooden cane was a clinical sound that preceded the fire. The first strike caught the sensitive curve of her breast, feeling like a line of molten lead being drawn across her skin.

"Thank you, Master, for correcting me," she sobbed, the words jagged and wet. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the camera’s lens felt like a physical weight, a third eye recording her failure for the permanent archive.

He moved with the rhythmic, detached precision of a machine. He didn't yell; he didn't have to. The silence between the strikes was worse than the cane itself, filled only with the hum of the camera and her own desperate whimpers. He moved lower, the cane stinging her inner thighs and the soft swell of her stomach. By the twenty-fifth stroke, Sadie had ceased to be a person with a history. She was just a collection of nerve endings, vibrating in the red-hot present.

Finally, the whistling stopped. The silence was deafening.

Hunter stepped into her line of sight, the black hood making him look like a phantom. He adjusted the camera one last time, capturing the "map" of her disobedience written in angry, criss-crossed welts over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Then, he unbuckled the straps.

Her legs gave out. She collapsed into him, a weeping heap of bruised skin and broken pride.

"The data is recorded, Slave," he murmured, his voice softening as he lifted her. "The error has been balanced. You’re clean again."

He carried her to the bed with a proprietary gentleness. He spent the next ten minutes applying a cool, medicinal salve to the welts. The transition from the bite of the cane to the soothing slide of his fingers was the System Reset she craved.

As he tucked the heavy duvet around her shoulders, the Grey Fog surged in: hick, heavy, and mercifully silent. The phantom pain was gone, replaced by a dull, honest thrumming that anchored her to the bed.

"Sleep," he commanded, kissing her forehead. "Tomorrow, I’ll need Recovery Sadie. We’re having lunch with our mother."

"Yes, Master," she whispered, her eyes already drifting shut.

She lay in the dark, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. It hurt to breathe, but she felt a profound, sickening gratitude. He hadn't discarded her. He had seen her corruption, fixed it, and put her to bed. In the silence of the townhouse, the Fog felt like the deepest hug she had ever known.

She was his. She was safe. As long as she followed the code, the Degenerate would stay locked in the dark where she belonged.

***

The Wife

Eleven months into the Amends Contract…

Sadie swirled the sprig of mint in her sparkling mocktail, the condensation on the crystal glass feeling cold and clean against her palm. The Gold Fog was a perpetual sunset, a warm, honey-thick haze that made the Northern Michigan resort look like a high-end travel brochure. Across the terrace, the Grand Traverse Bay sparkled with a clarity she finally felt she shared.

She looked across the small bistro table at Hunter. In the amber glow of the patio lanterns, his acne-scarred skin and the heavy, uneven line of his nose didn't look like flaws to her. They looked like character: the rugged, dependable features of the man who had pulled her out of the wreckage. He wore a crisp linen suit that made him look solid and successful, the perfect anchor for her new life.

"You're glowing, Sadie," he said, his voice soft. He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. He was drinking a deep red Cabernet, the scent of it rich and oaky, but Sadie felt no craving.

"I'm happy, Hunter," she whispered, and she meant it. "I feel... light. For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm running away from anything. I’m just here. With you."

"That’s the sobriety talking," he said with a proud, proprietary smile. "Eleven months. You’ve done the work, honey."

A woman at the next table, nursing a martini with a weary, hollow expression, looked over at them. "I'm sorry to eavesdrop," she sighed, "but you two look so genuinely happy. My husband hasn't looked at me like that since our honeymoon."

Sadie turned to her, her smile radiant and effortless. "It’s about trust," Sadie said, her voice filled with a peaceful, TradeWife authority. "I used to be a mess. I tried to control everything and ended up with nothing. But once I let my husband take the lead, once I gave him my total trust, everything just fell into place. He knows what's best for me, even when I don't."

The woman looked at Hunter with a mix of envy and awe. Hunter simply squeezed Sadie's hand, the silent Admin accepting the testimonial.

"I think it's time to head upstairs, sweetheart," Hunter murmured, standing and pulling out her chair. "The fresh air is making me sentimental."

The walk back to the resort suite was a dream. The Gold Fog muffled the sound of the crickets and the distant lake, leaving only the rhythmic click of her sandals on the cobblestones. Inside the room, the lights were dimmed, and the scent of lilies filled the air.

Making love as the Wife was nothing like the jagged, electric encounters of her other personas. It was slow, deliberate, and draped in a heavy cloak of romance. They kissed a lot more, passionate embraces as their hands roamed each others bodies. He was gentle with her but took the lead, and she learned how to pleasure him in the most sensual ways possible. And when he came it was always inside her, planting his seed deep in her womb, as though Husband and Wife were desperate to start a family.

Hunter moved over her and Sadie closed her eyes, lost in the sensation of being cherished. She felt safe, she felt redeemed, and most of all, she felt loved. Through the Gold Fog, she looked up at his face: his oversized nose, his scarred skin, and she saw a god.

After a long and pleasurably exhausting bout of lovemaking, she wondered what it would be like to truly be married to this man. Her brother, her owner, her buddy, her caretaker, her everything. She wondered what it would be like to be the mother of his child. She wondered if any of it was possible.

As she drifted off to sleep in the crook of his arm, she had one final, hazy thought: I want to stay right here. I never want to be anyone else again.

Deep, deep down inside her consciousness a tiny voice whispered, But you made a promise!

END OF CHAPTER 10

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