Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Ten
Carmen
“Whore.”
“No. Don’t call me that. You know it’s not true!”
“Whore. Just like you’re mother. Don’t deny it!”
I’m kneeling, the wood of my bedroom floor hard and cold under my knees. How long have I been in this position? I’m shaking and crying, my gaze fixed on my father’s shoes because he told me not to look at him. He told me to keep my eyes down, that I was unworthy to look at him or towards God.
“What kind of woman desires a priest? A shameful slut, that’s who!”
“Nothing happened!” Hot tears tack down my face.
“Only because he was strong! Were you disappointed, girl? Were you disappointed that your plan didn’t work?”
“I had no plan!” I look up at him now, allowing myself to be angry. “If Father thought I did, he’d have never asked me to stay!”
“Oh, and he won’t again, no matter what.” He squats down to my eye level, sneering. I can smell the sour beer on his breath. “I’ve told him about you. I’ve told him you only pretend to be good, but you’re not. You never were. I told him having you work at the church was a mistake. I’ve fixed it, Carmen. You’re not going back. In fact, you’re never leaving this house again.”
He stands and walks to the door and I clamber to my feet, my legs unsteady beneath me.
“What do you mean?” I reach the door just as he slams it. “What do you mean?”
I hear the sound of banging. He’s hammering. My father is hammering boards across the door. I scream and beat on the door with my fist. I need help. I think of my mother, but know she won’t come, so I call for the only person I know cares.
“Father! Father Dominic! Father, help me!”
I call and call and I’m shaking again, but I realize it’s because I’m being shaken. I was dreaming, and as I emerge from the nightmare, I realize someone is jostling me awake.
In the dim glow of the nightlight, I see who it is. It’s Father.
“Carmen. Carmen! Wake up. It’s okay. It’s okay!”
“Oh… oh….” I can barely draw a breath. I feel wetness on my face. I was crying in my sleep. I slump against Father Dominic, and he pulls me to him. He’s not wearing his habit.
The t-shirt under my cheek is thin and soft.
“It’s just a dream, child.” He’s rocking me. I can’t remember ever being rocked, although I’m sure my mother did at some point. I let him. I let myself sink into the comfort.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks into my hair. I feel his breath warm against my scalp. A tingle of raw pleasure ripples through me, and I should pull away but I can’t. I want this. I need this.
Forgive me, Father.
“I can’t,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Please don’t ask me, Father.”
“Carmen.” He holds me tighter when I try to pull away. “Don’t. Don’t deny me the chance to help you.”
“I’m ashamed!”
“Of what?”
I feel myself grow still. Father Dominic gently holds me at arm’s length and looks at my face.
“Of what, Carmen?”
“My father…”
“Has he done something to you?” His voice is low and deep, protective. I think I know what he means.
“No. He hasn’t touched me. He’s just a bully. I dreamed he was… he was angry at me… for being here. He said I was trying… I was trying to… that I wanted to…” I can’t say it. I don’t have to. “Oh god, Father. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” He pauses. “Is there more, Carmen? Is there more you need to talk about?” Another pause. “To confess?”
To confess. I think of how I knelt in the booth, baring almost all, but not all.
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“You’ll hate me.”
“Carmen.” He takes my face between his large hands. He puts his forehead to mine. “I could never hate you, child.”
I remind myself I have to, that confession is obedience to God. But the truth is that if I don’t unburden myself of this need, I feel I’ll die from it. If I tell Father, he can end this torment by telling me the dreaded truth I need to hear—that I can’t have him.
“Oh, Father.” I take his wrists in my hands and draw a ragged breath, breathing in his warm exhale as I do. “I have thoughts… bad… bad girl thoughts. About…” I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “About… you.”
I tense, preparing for him to move away, but he doesn’t.
“I know it’s wrong. It’s just a crush, and I know for a grown woman it’s different than it is for a little girl because of the…” I swallow before continuing. “…the desire that comes with it.”
I can’t look at him. But I keep going as the heat of shame floods my skin. “My father says all women are whores or will become one. In my dream, my father locked me in my room for tempting you. He said I’d done it on purpose. He boarded the door shut. It seemed so real. I could hear the hammer banging”
I begin to cry.
“Sweet little one,” he says. “You heard the pipes of this old house and nothing more. And you are not a whore. You’re perfect. Sweet.”
I can hear the words. I can feel him speak them against my face. Then it happens. Our lips touch. It’s like a spark igniting tinder, and that’s how Father reacts.
He pulls back as if burned, or he tries, but I follow him. The need I’ve tried to deny has exploded inside me, filling me, and suddenly I don’t care about judgment above or below. I only care about the man who’s given me my first real kiss.
Please. I hear my own plea murmured against his lips. I feel tears wet on my cheek, tears of need, and wetness from a different kind of need between my legs.
His tongue is in my mouth, his arms tight around me, his hands roaming my body under the t-shirt that carries his smell. I press my unbound breasts against his palms, the nipples hard and aching.
I know about the mechanics of sex; the girls at school were not chaste. But I’ve never been with a man. Even so, my body is on autopilot and saying what I can’t put in words. When Father lays me down, my hips rise to meet the hand that moves between my legs.
“So wet,” he says, and I part my thighs, inviting his touch with complete trust and a hunger that’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. There’s fear, too, not just of the unknown, but that he’ll stop if he knows I’m a virgin. When he moves his hand, I take his wrist and guide it back down, gasping when I feel his fingers press the mound of my pussy through my drenched panties.
“Don’t stop,” I plead. “Please. I need you. Please. Please.”
He stands and pulls off his shirt and slips off his pants. And now I am scared. I don’t need experience to know he’s huge, and in the back of my mind I wonder how he’s going to fit. But his hands are sliding up my thighs and the hunger in his eyes matches my own. He wants me, and being wanted kicks my need into overdrive. Father Dominic skims my panties down over my hips. He tosses them aside and lowers his head to crown each of my nipples with a kiss before lapping his way down between my legs and…
I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming, and when I feel him part my pussy lips and swirl his tongue around the sensitive nub at the apex of my cleft, I arch my back against his mouth and I don’t care if it makes me bad or wicked or wanton. This is as close to paradise as I’ve ever been, and the tiny quake that starts under his tongue radiates outward into waves of pleasure so fierce that I cry my pleasure into the dark room.
And then he’s over me, moving between my legs, the length of his cock pressed against my thigh. His mouth finds mine again, and I taste my own salty musk on his tongue. There’s pressure between my legs and I gasp at the searing burn as he enters, unprepared as I am to be so suddenly and abruptly filled. I bite my lip to keep from screaming and close my eyes tight as he moves, feeling flickers of the initial pleasure mingle with the discomfort of his thrusts.
Then he’s moving faster, the bed creaking under us, and I’m almost about to ask him to stop when I hear him moan and hearing this–hearing how my surrender has pleased him–causes a new surge of warmth through my body just before another kind of warmth floods deep into my core. Father has come inside me. I lay still, looking up at the ceiling.
I don’t say anything as he slowly withdraws from my body, but in the dim lamplight, I can see his face as he looks down and then into my eyes, his expression changing when he realizes the truth.
