Save Me, Sinners: A Dark MFM Menage Romance Page 4

  I don't say anything as he shuffles off to handle whatever emergency Rhonda cooked up. The thing is, there is something magical about her. Some light that used to be in her mother got passed down to her. It didn't get crushed out like a stubbed out cigarette yet either. She still flows with light. And knowing I can't be a part of that makes me a little bitter.

  Mutually beneficial arrangement. Something to think about.

  Chapter 4

  Silas

  I use the bookmark to open the huge leather-bound book to the last page and try to focus. The numbers all line up in columns, but they don't want to stay still. As I try to focus on them, they seem to swim. They wriggle from their spots and change lanes, swirling back and forth like kids at the pool.

  But I can see the red numbers, the bloody hints that the Kingdom Come Family compound needs to do something if we are going to stay alive. If we are not going to drown. Those red numbers leak all over the rest of the page, taking over everything.

  I’m not sure how it has come to this, or what to do about it. The surrounding community still makes donations like they have for decades. Good-hearted people who think they can buy a little goodwill to get into heaven, even if they're not really willing to do the hard work. It’s like insurance.

  But as the years have gone by, our biggest supporters have left, died off, or just lost interest. They still make donations of goods, maybe drop off a truckload of corn or tomatoes every once in awhile, but we still need cash money for gas, electricity, clean water. That's just reality.

  And everybody thinks I will magically find a way. Somehow, I always have, but it's not always easy. And one of these times, it just won't be enough.

  What happens then? What happens when they find out their Father Daddy can't provide?

  The screen door swings open and Owen fills the void, blocking the light briefly with his body. He stomps across the small room and drops into a chair. He taps his fingers together three times before clasping his hands over his broad, thick abdomen and nods at me in a friendly but respectful way. Though we are brothers, we haven’t been able to be really close in a long time. My responsibilities seem to have gotten in the way of that too.

  “Owen,” I say in greeting.

  I'm not sure what he's doing here. He knows I'm supposed to be working on the books at this time, and we don't have a meeting scheduled. But he's looking at me like he's ready to continue some conversation we must have started before. Obviously he wants my attention, so I push myself back in my chair and look him over, waiting for what he's going to say next.

  It takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. He seems relaxed, his knees falling open, his shoulders resting heavily against the chair cushions. He's a rather large fellow, with a distinct animal presence. Anytime that he feels uneasy, those emotions transfer immediately to his body. So I know that he's eager to tell me something. He wants to open a dialogue. I read it all over him.

  “So I thought things with Gina —”

  “Obedience,” I correct him.

  He flinches a little, then nods. “Right, right. She is Obedience now. I thought her deflowering went pretty well, right?”

  I press my lips together and simply look at him. This is not a good start to this conversation. Now that she's a woman, discussing her like this, even if she hasn't been assigned a Master yet, is not appropriate.

  He can sense my discomfort and glances sideways while he tries to figure out another way around to whatever it is he's come here to tell me.

  “Obedience,” he mutters again.

  “Owen, I still have so much work to do,” I say, urging him to continue.

  “So what happens next?” he blurts out. His hands flex into fists briefly, belying his discomfort. But now at least I understand why he's here.

  “We prepare the next group,” I suggest slowly, watching his face carefully. He nods again, as though this is the answer he was expecting.

  “Right,” he sighs. “Tulip, Abbie, and… Angel?”

  As he says her name, his shoulders hunch forward a little bit. That's it. He wants to talk about Angel.

  “Yes, those three need preparation, and then we can join them into the Family. And the cycle begins again.”

  “Yes,” he murmurs.

  I wait for a few moments, hoping he'll say something else. “Owen, is there something that you want to talk about?”

  “We are very blessed,” he sighs. His posture relaxes.

  “Yes we are,” I agree. “Our new women are unlike any I've seen in years. Three at once, plus Obedience… It’s an unusual blessing.”

  His tongue slides out, wetting his lower lip as he thinks.

  “That Angel, especially. She's ripened so quickly, did you notice?”

  “Angel? I'm not sure I did notice,” I admit.

  I sense the eagerness in his features, so I try to think back. Angel came here when she was in her early teens, but her mother, Melissa, drew most of my attention, and not always in a good way. She has always been teetering on the brink of being lost. On one hand she’s a natural leader, but on the other hand she’s capable of base acts of spite. Keeping her straight is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  In some ways I'm sure being here is a far better life than she would've found outside the compound. But at the same time sometimes I wonder if I've invited a rattlesnake to sleep in our bed. She's prone to anger. Stupid, vengeful fits. And worse, if the rumors are true.

  “Of course you noticed her,” he insists. “Flowy, light brown hair. Grown about four inches in the last year. Can barely keep up with the clothes her mother makes for her. Walks around in bare feet all the time.”

  He's right. I do know exactly what he means. There's a light to her. She shines. She's so moist, so dewy and fresh, something about her looks like she'd be good to taste. Like candy. Like fruit. And she shines. There’s an honesty there - something that reaches me. I’ve felt her glance sail past me like an arrow during many sermons.

  Which is exactly why I have not been looking at her. Some temptations are better to simply ignore.

  “I had an idea,” he begins carefully. His eyes flicker toward the book of accounts open in front of me. I feel defensive already, but closing the book would make me look weak.

  “She'll be part of the next deflowering,” I assure him. “You’ll have your chance. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  His eyebrows go up. “Are you telling me that I could… execute the ceremony?”

  “Absolutely not!” I reply without even thinking. His eagerness is an affront. He puts his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't understand,” he mutters defensively.

  “I take the flower, Owen,” I remind him sternly. “It’s my role. It’s my duty.”

  He looks away, embarrassed. “Yes, course. Of course you do. I was just thinking… Just never mind. I was just trying to help.”

  “I don't need that kind of help,” I growl.

  He sighs, his breath coming out through flared nostrils. I'm not sure why I spoke to him so sharply over a girl I barely know. She must be quite a prize. I should definitely take another look at her during my next sermon. Maybe I underestimated her value.

  “But she is looking for a Master, right?”

  I half stand out of my chair. “All right, Owen, we need to be done with this conversation,” I warn him. “You know the rules. I take the flower. You give the lesson —”

  “What if there's more?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He looks up at me, his gaze keen and aggressive.

  “What do you mean by more?” I ask him warily.

  “Maybe she could be of more help to us? More material help?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t her mother still owe us quite a bit?”

  I sit back in my chair. His eyes skate over the red entries in the book, though I doubt he can really read them from where he is sitting. Still, it is something to consider.

  “
Are you suggesting Angel could pay her mother's debt?”

  He shrugs.

  “Owen, is this why you came to talk to me?” I ask. “Did you already have something in motion?”

  He shrugs again. The way he’s wringing his hands, I can sense this is something he already thought out. He just didn’t prepare a speech. It’s not his strong suit.

  “Owen, please just speak plainly. Are you suggesting that we —”

  “— we could sell her? Sell her flower?” he blurts out, his voice breathless and excited.

  My chest tightens. It's a scheme of last resort, but it has its usefulness.

  “What makes you think we could do that?”

  He clears his throat, leaning forward and rubbing his palms together quickly. He takes a deep breath before beginning again.

  “I just remember you saying that her mother owed us. For bail. For rehab. And you asked me to think of ways to help the Family, remember?”

  “I do remember,” I agree.

  I remember very well. It happened last month, when the fluctuating price of natural gas emptied our shallow bank account in one fell swoop. I had a moment of panic, trying to piece out how I was going to push us through another month with almost no money coming in. A lucky check from an ex-member who had passed away appeared the next week. Of course, we can't rely on that kind of windfall every month.

  But just before I got the check, Owen and I sat on my front porch one evening, watching the small, golden lights in shack windows over the small compound. He could tell something was weighing heavy on my mind. Even though he didn't know what it was. I felt far away from him. Somewhere in a dark future. I was imagining that there was some invisible countdown of nights when I would be able to watch my flock, safe in their homes. That it was almost over for all of us. And nobody knew but me.

  So when he asked me what was wrong, I reached out to him in desperation. It probably wasn't the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have burdened him.

  But now here he is, with an idea.

  “She's ready, Silas,” he says quietly. His voice thickens, and I can tell he's really thinking about it. Those full hips. Those eager, wanting eyes.

  “I don't think that would make a long-term difference,” I object weakly. What would a virgin really bring us? Another couple weeks? Maybe some goodwill? Just as likely to bring us a County Sheriff. Sheriff Dooley has been prowling our perimeter for some months, probably looking for a chance to make trouble. I’ve seen his cruiser rolling slowly back toward the main road at odd hours.

  “I heard… Let’s just say it could make a big difference,” he says slowly, his eyes laser focused on mine. He's measuring my reactions, becoming more bold every second. “Maybe not even just the flower… maybe sell the whole girl?”

  I spread my hands on the desk. Clearly he's thought about this quite a bit. “Go on.”

  “There's been some talk… down at Dustin's. Some people have seen her. They want in.”

  Dustin's… that makes some sense. A biker bar about two miles from here. I was wondering where Owen was, disappearing for hours at a time. Apparently he's been negotiating the sale of some of our assets. I appreciate his initiative, but this is a very touchy subject.

  “They want in,” I repeat, turning the words around on my tongue. They want Angel. One less mouth to feed? Is she worth it? I’ll have a lot of explaining to do for the rest of the Family.

  “I'll think about it,” I announce finally.

  “No, I really think —”

  I hold up one hand, stop. He clamps his lip shut immediately.

  “I will think about it,” I growl, unhappy that I have to repeat myself.

  He stands, scowling and slapping his palms against his thighs, just fidgeting. His boots are heavy across the floorboards as he leaves the small room, letting the screen door slam behind him.

  I need to take another look at this girl. If she's so valuable to some other people, I want to think twice before I give her away.

  Chapter 5

  Angel

  The last thing Mama said to me before she left for her duties at the reclamation shed was that I was forbidden to leave. Again. Her eyes drifted over my legs as I lay in bed. I wasn’t sure if she was considering criticizing my choice of nightgowns, or checking to see if my bruises had healed yet from the whipping she gave me. Either way, I was still grounded.

  She's gone now, and I know I can probably lay in bed for quite a while longer. Maybe even all day. Over the last few days, I've cleaned every nook and cranny in our little house at least three times. I don't have anything else to do. Even the garden is all tidied and weed free now. I doubt any giant burdock plants have sprung up overnight, so all I really need to do is go out there to retrieve sweet pea tendrils and check for rabbit damage.

  I can't sleep anymore. I'm not tired. Laying here is making me edgy and sore. But without anything else to do over the course of the day, why should I even bother? Why should I get up?

  My thoughts drift to a sermon Father Daddy gave once about the sinfulness of sloth. It's no accident that sloth is one of the deadly sins. You might think it's not so bad, he said, but stealing the labor you should be donating to your Family, by withholding it, is unforgivable. That is why we cannot indulge in sloth.

  But is it sloth if I have been commanded to stay here? And I’ve run out of chores?

  The thing is, the sermon was so compelling. I understood the danger of that sin immediately after he explained it to us. I know I need to get up. I can almost sense Father Daddy's disapproving stare if he knew what I was doing right now. Just laying here, pretending to want to sleep.

  He would be so disappointed, he would probably get that look in his eyes, that angry squint. The one where he is trying to calculate something, as though he can weigh the amount of sin like a sack of flour or something. Hold it in his hands. Bounce it against his palm, with his arms and chest flexing under the weight of it.

  And then it overtakes me again. Images of Father Daddy and Brother Owen with the newly-named Obedience. I know I wasn't supposed to be there, and the remaining, stinging ache on my backside and legs reminds me just how much. Mama’s cruel, enraged expression is something I won’t be able to forget soon either. I know I risked embarrassing her in front of the other aunties. That would not have been forgivable.

  Yet, I can't bring myself to regret it. It was an absolutely miraculous vision I witnessed. I can’t forget the glory of Father Daddy and Brother Owen in their unabashed nakedness, their literal holy forms exposed to me, as they made a woman of Obedience.

  I curl onto my side, trembling in the thrall of the vision of them that I can't seem to get out of my mind. I know I shouldn't keep replaying at, but I can't help it. I just can't.

  What they did to her… that was sacred. That was a secret ritual and knowing that it awaits me too sends electric thrills through the deepest parts of my body. My core trembles. My heart flip-flops from side to side, banging against the inside of my rib cage.

  Will they do it just like that? Will Brother Owen open my mouth, place his manhood against my lower lip? What does it taste like? What am I supposed to do with it?

  Will Father Daddy lean over me, nudging his manhood against my flower? How could he? He was so big, it doesn't seem possible. I don’t believe I could manage it.

  What if I can't? What if I get to the ceremony and it's just impossible? What if there is something wrong with me and my body can't accommodate him?

  The thought shocks me. I'm instantly disappointed in myself, filled with shame that I might let them down in such a way.

  But it can’t be true. Can it? The results would be devastating. I could be cast out. I could be found defective and sent to live among the heathens.

  No. I can do better. And besides, maybe I'm fine. Maybe I'm built exactly like Obedience, and she seemed to manage the ceremony all right, didn't she?

  But just to be sure.

  I should check?

  I should.


  Even though Mama told me never to do this, in the strictest and direst of warnings, I let my fingers drift over my belly and into my thick, cotton panties.

  I was always told that my hands should only brush over the top of my flower to clean it. Quickly, with a swiping motion. I was definitely not to linger here, I remember as my hands creep even lower. I resolve not to explore it too earnestly. My flower is a gift I am meant to give my Master. It's not to be opened too soon, nor treated roughly.

  But I need to be certain. Cautiously, I let my fingers drift to the warmer parts of me. I roll back onto my back and bend my knees up, planting my heels farther apart.

  I have to do this. I have to make sure I'm suitable for the ceremony.

  Slowly I allow myself to press further, inching my fingertips over my seam, gingerly stroking back and forth, a little deeper and a little deeper yet. Was he here? Is this how deep he went?

  No. It was further than this. This can't be all there is. This slippery wetness. This hot seam. I have to see. I hold three fingers together, then four. Is that the right size? Certainly it had to be something like this. That's absurd. How would anything like this ever fit inside me?

  I place my heels further apart, trying to visualize my flower unfurling, opening for him. Can I do it? I wiggle against my fingers, and the sensation is different than I expected. It's so moist, so tender. It feels good when I touch myself just at the top, where there are bumps and protrusions that I can't quite identify. This didn't really appear in any of the picture books we were given during our education. But I can feel how it really is like the petals of a flower, how there's a feeling of opening, of becoming more ripe with each second.

  I imagine Father Daddy over me, with that intense glare. His eyes boring into mine as his form covers me, blocking out the light. His weight bearing against my hips, pushing my legs open. I need to move a little more, press myself against him a little harder.

  We would rock together, nudging our secret parts closer and closer together until they could interlock, until they could join. I could do that for him, and the desire to do that swells inside me like the bursting of a white firework in the sky. It trembles, glittering faintly until suddenly filling the space behind my eyes with lights, a rushing sound in my ears... sparkling, flaming trails that slide down the sky and become cool, watery, silvery bits of bliss rocking me back and forth.