“It’s settled then,” Dad states, considering the matter closed, and resumes eating his meal. I’m such a coward. It’s clear he wants me to date and eventually marry Lester.
What am I going to do?
On the drive home, I berate myself for agreeing to a date with Lester. Then I think,What if he’s the man God sent for me?Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance, but the white foam flashes in my mind’s eye.
Yuck.
After getting home, I take a long, hot shower before settling in bed. I lie propped against the pillows, writing in my diary. It’s the keeper of my deep dark secrets and ongoing fantasies. The contents should’ve caused the pages to go up in flames long ago. My education of sex was acquired through television, porn, and Mia. Only she is privy to my ungodly desires. I’m afraid to confide in anyone else, afraid of being judged. She encourages me to experiment, but that means I’ll have to commit a sin. I’m supposed to remain virtuous until I’m married. Every day, I pray for God to deliver my soul from the clutches of Satan.
At night when I close my eyes, seeking slumber, I dream of a faceless man who plays a recurring role in my subconscious mind. He lures me to the abyss, promising ecstasy beyond my wildest imagination. I glance left to the beckoning light beseeching me to enter eternal grace. Then I peer right, towards darkness. There, the stranger looms, holding his hand out for me. Though he doesn’t physically touch me, somehow his caress is tangible. It floats across my flushed flesh and sends a zing of electricity straight to my center. Unconsciously, I wander to him. I can’t resist; my body is weak.
He makes love to me. Every kiss, every touch, every thrust, transports me closer to the point of no return. I gladly give him ownership of my soul, choosing Hell over Heaven. God tests me, and I fail each time. Then I wake, sweaty and throbbing between my legs. I pray immediately, asking for forgiveness. How can I crave something I’ve never had? Want a man I’ve never seen? I’ve always fought this battle within me. My father said I have my mother’s sickness.
One day my curiosity got the better of me. My father left home to run an errand, leaving me to my own devices. The memory still haunts me.
I watched from my bedroom window as Dad’s car disappeared down the street. Once the coast was clear, I gathered my courage, laid on the bed, and slid my hand under the waistband of my panties. I explored tentatively at first, then became bolder, spreading my legs farther apart as the pleasure increased. My hips began to rock in sync with my plundering fingers, becoming lost in blissful self-discovery. I was very close to reaching something magical when my father entered the room.
“Unholy, impure harlot!” he shouted, dragging me off the bed.
“I’m sorry!” I said, more frightened than I’ve ever been in my life.
He pulled me down the stairs and into the kitchen where he turned on the burner and held the underside of my wrist over the flame.
“Daddy! No!” I screamed, trying to break his hold.
“Satan has taken hold of you!”
“I’ll never touch there again! Daddy, please!”
“That is what Hell feels like!” He threw me to the floor. “You have your mother’s sickness in you.”
I withered in pain, squeezing myself into a tiny ball, petrified of what would come next. I heard something being dumped onto the ceramic tile before I was yanked to my knees. Rice littered the floor.
“Kneel on the rice,” he demanded. “You will stay this way all night and pray for your wicked soul.”
Dad had forgotten his wallet in his room and had come back home. I was so focused on the pleasure; I didn’t hear his return.
I absentmindedly skim my thumb over the slightly raised skin under my wrist. The scarring is barely noticeable. My father had treated the injury himself, saying I only received second-degree burns, so there was no need to seek medical attention. But I knew his decision not to go had more to do with not being able to explain how I obtained the burn. I began touching myself again about a year ago. There was no risk of being caught unawares late at night in the privacy of my condo. It’s become an addiction I can’t conquer.
The sounds of sex penetrate the thin walls of my bedroom. My neighbor’s girlfriend must be staying the night. I look forward to Kaci’s visits. The couple has a voracious sexual appetite and spend hours making love. Most people would be livid for being kept from sleep, but not me. Listening to them makes me feel alive. I imagine it’s me he’s pleasuring, my name he shouts as he reaches climax. I’ve seen him around the building, even rode the elevator with him a few times. He’s an attractive man—tall, bald with a goatee, and toffee-colored skin. I’ve never seen Kaci, but I envision she’s beautiful. My breaths come in short, shallow pants as a tingling sensation spreads through my private area. I get out of bed and hurry to the other side of my bedroom. I eagerly press my ear to the cool wall. Their grunts and moans invade my senses. I close my eyes and delve my hand into my bottoms. My fingers rapidly knead my clit.
“Julian! Fuck me harder, faster!” Kaci screams.
The squeaking noise of the bed intensifies as he grants her request.
“I’m about to come, babe!” he roars.
They shout, reaching their end together.
I slide to the floor, trembling from the onslaught of my own orgasm.
I’m a dirty whore, just like my father has accused me of being numerous times.
I head to the bathroom on wobbly legs to wash away my shame.
Not one of the superficial bitches at the gentleman’s club appealed to me, so I went without. Since then, I’ve been more irritable and snapping at everyone. Fuck, I need some pussy. It’s ten o’clock, and I’m just getting to work. I even missed an important meeting. Employees avoid me as I stride towards my office, sensing my turbulent mood. I don’t blame them.
“Pepper’s a virgin.” I hear a man say just before I pass the employee lounge.
