Page 16 of Sinister

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs appreciatively as he cups my sex. He focuses his attention on my clit, petting it with increasing speed until all potential protests become a mass of moans that I barely recognize as coming from me.

I need to stop this. But I also want more of it. I’m curious about what more there is.

But just as I feel close to . . . something, his weight is lifted off me.

The alcohol is making my head spin too fast, and I can’t see what he’s up to. It’s only when he settles back down between my legs that I realize he’s fully naked.

“Sin.” I open my mouth to tell him to stop, that we’ve already gone too far and I don’t think I’m ready. Or am I? I can no longer tell. It’s almost as if I am under a spell.

His fingers probe at my entrance, and he inserts one finger inside me.

The sudden intrusion makes me startle, but he’s gentle enough that soon I’m squirming under him as I find myself once more getting close to that elusive peak.

“You’re doing so good, Petra,” I hear him say dimly. “I need to make you mine so badly . . .”

I frown at his words. But before I can ask him what he means, he lines his cock against my entrance and pushes in.

What follows is a brief, blinding moment of pain.

And then a muffled groan from Sin as I’m fully pulled under a veil of darkness.

6

PETRA

1 March 1896

The doors to the bookshop open, and I set foot inside, my steps faltering with excitement. A handful of girls around my age from the congregation do the same, with Mrs. Jenkins, our chaperone, following suit.

Though she keeps to the back, not engaging with us, her presence is felt at every step, a warning not to stray into the back of the shop where the controversial material is found.

The girls giggle as they grab books from the shelves, loudly flipping through the pages.

Mrs. Jenkins gives them a severe look, but soon her attention is captivated by a new prayer book with gilded pages.

The front of the bookshop is made up entirely of prayer books and treatises on theology, alongside the occasional memoir of some pious person long gone.

But it is in the back where the true treasure lay: science, arts, travel, music, and so much more.

I glance longingly at the shadowed section.

I’d come alone once to pick up a book for my brother. With no Mrs. Jenkins around, I’d wandered off into the back and found myself staring at outrageous titles like On the Origin of Species or The Age of Reason. But instead of scandalizing me, as no doubt was the notion of my congregation, they had only piqued my interest.

Mrs. Jenkins continues to peruse her golden leaves. The girls are deep in conversation with one another as they compare books, debating which one to buy.

I have pin money. Not a lot, but enough to afford a book. A religious book. I would never be able to buy one of the others. But I can . . . look? Just for a moment. Just beyond the titles.

My heart in my throat, I slide backward. Slowly. Quietly.

If I’m caught, my excuse is ready: I was feeling faint and required a place to lie down. Due to my small frame, I have been known to have a frail constitution, particularly during the harsh New England winters, so Mrs. Jenkins should easily accept the explanation.

A few more steps. No one takes note of me.

Finally, I’m in the shadows.

The back of the shop. The forbidden area.

With how darkened the rows are here, I must squint to get a good read of the titles through my veil. But as luck would have it, I am in the right section.