Sins of the Flesh

by rinawrote

Summary:

In your village ruled by fear and faith, Mr. Warren’s lust blurs the line between sin and salvation.

Chapter 1: Unholy Desire

The village of Little Happens is shrouded in fog when Mr. Warren arrives. He rides in with Mr. Clarke at his side, both cloaked in black, faces set like stone. The villagers bow their heads low, murmuring prayers, clutching their children tighter; where these men tread, fire follows.

You watch from the upper window of the estate house, breath clouding the glass. Your mother, the housemaid, has already prepared the hearth, scrubbed the boards, and laid out the fresh linens as ordered. This house - once home to a frail squire - is now a gift to the men for their services. The Witchfinders’ reward.

Then, he sees you in the window. A girl - a woman - twenty-one years at most, with wide eyes behind the fogged glass and innocence clinging to you like snow on a rooftop. You don’t look away quickly enough. Your gaze lingers. Curious, cautious - untouched. Mr. Warren feels it immediately. The pull.

You’ve not met him properly yet - only seen him. First, that morning astride a pale horse - like Death - now again as he sweeps through the front door of the house, sunless and terrible in his dark coat, boots shining, the wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his eyes. He wears discernment like armour. He doesn’t look like a man who doubts his cause.

He clenches his jaw and says nothing to you - but something coils deep inside him. Something raw and profoundly unholy. He tells himself it is natural. Men have urges, even holy men. But he is not holy - not truly. Not anymore.

You are the daughter of the housemaid, and you have no business looking as you do - fresh-faced and wide-eyed, with hands that do not yet bear the burden of sin. You’re a lamb in the lion’s den, and Mr. Warren is all tooth and claw. You do not yet know what it means to be watched by a man like him.

That evening, the house is quiet, save for the crackle of flames in the hearth and the muffled prayers from your mother’s chamber. She fears them, as many do. You fetch water from the cistern, careful not to make noise. But as you pass the stairwell, you feel eyes upon you.

“Girl.”

You freeze. The voice is low. Sharp. It’s him. You turn, bowing your head. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Warren stands on the stairs, half-draped in shadow. He wears no hat now. His hair falls in dark curls to his shoulders, and his face - sharp, noble, too clean for the filth he drags from women’s lives - tilts slightly, assessing.

There’s something about you. It offends him - this ache. It burns behind his ribs like rum. You’re in your nightdress, simple and plain, but there’s something untouched - something untainted. He notices the soft curve of your jaw, the fear in your eyes, the reverence when you look down.

He shouldn’t want you. You’re beneath him - beneath everything he stands for. A servant’s daughter. Young and pure. Yet the more innocent you are, the more the corruption in him stirs. It is not right. It is not holy. But his arrogance whispers otherwise; God brings temptation to test man’s will. That’s what he’ll tell himself.

“What is thy name?”

“(Y/N), sir,” you say softly.

“(Y/N),” he repeats, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing the taste of it on his tongue. “Named after a saint, or a whore?”

You gulp. He smiles wickedly. Small and cold, but there’s a flicker of something else behind his eyes that unsettles you.

“Saint, sir.”

His boots creak as he steps down one stair. Then another. “Hmm.” He stops when he’s close enough that you can see the fine embroidery on his clothing, the dark lashes framing his icy eyes. “Saints are a rarity. Keep to thy prayers, girl. The devil seeks innocent vessels.”

Your cheeks burn, though you don’t know why. “Yes, Mr. Warren.”

He holds your gaze a moment longer than is proper. Or safe. Then he turns away, to his chambers - but the damage is done. He can feel it in the tightness of his collar, the pulse jumping in his throat. He is a man of God - a punisher of wickedness. He has cast women into flames for less. And yet - there is something more than wicked inside him now. And it’s you.

The house echoes with the weight of silence. Wind scratches at the shutters like a clawed hand. Below, the embers crackle low in the hearth. The air smells of soap and lye from where your mother laid freshened linens in the upper chambers.

Mr. Warren lies awake. He ought to be resting; tomorrow, the questioning begins - a village in need of purging. Another soul to burn. And yet, he tosses and turns in the sheets, jaw clenched tight, eyes open in the dark of the night. Your name glides across his mind like a serpent - like a sin whispered too close to the altar. He shouldn’t know it so intimately. He shouldn’t care. Yet your voice, your downcast gaze, the tremble of your breath when he stepped closer - all of it clings to him.

His room is grand by village standards. The bed large, the windows adorned with velvet curtains that he’s drawn shut against the moonlight. The candle has long since died, but the darkness only sharpens what he feels. He can still see you in his mind. Barefoot on the floorboards, hair pulled back in a modest fashion, but not so tightly that a few strands don’t brush your neck. Your nightdress was plain, yes - but it revealed just enough at the collar to trouble him. And it is not just the sight of flesh that arouses him. It’s your innocence. That purity he cannot abide. He breathes hard, one hand over his eyes, as he feels himself harden.

“God,” he whispers through his teeth - bitter. “Forgive me.”

But there is no forgiveness in him. There hasn’t been for a long time. And certainly not tonight. His other hand slides down, beneath the sheets. He grips his shaft tentatively, sighing at the ache. He pumps his fist slowly at first. Deliberate. A penance, he tells himself. An exorcism. Yet he does not think of devils. He thinks of you. Bent at the waist. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. Not in fear, not in pain - in a sea of submission and pleasure.

He hates himself for it. Truly. Somewhere deep down, beneath layers of conceit and years of blood and flame, there’s a flicker of shame. But it dies quickly. Suffocated by the louder voice that tells him, ‘You are a man. A chosen man. God grants temptation, but He also grants power.’ And power - Mr. Warren knows - is best used when it corrupts.

He shudders in the dark, breath ragged. His body betrays him in the worst way - urging him forward with quickening hands, thoughts spiraling into visions he dare not speak aloud. Visions of you in his bed - in his grasp. Kneeling not to God, but to him. He twitches in his hand as he brings himself closer to the edge, tightening his fist, imagining your tight, untouched cunt in its place. He spills into his hand with a breathy groan, twitching at the sensation as hot ropes of cum paint his abdomen.

He lies in silence for a moment, panting faintly, the wetness on his hand a sickening testament. He turns his head toward the closed door, where he imagines you asleep in your own little room, tucked away and unknowing. He licks his lips. His throat feels parched.

“Keep thy prayers, girl,” he murmurs again to himself, the echo of his earlier words. And Mr. Warren is already preparing to make you his.

Days pass. Long, hungry, sleepless days. Each morning, Mr. Warren wakes with the taste of your name on his tongue. Each night, he returns to his bed as though punished by divine lust, only to commit the same sin in silence, face pressed to his pillow, whispering your name into the dark. You haunt him. It makes him crueler - more impatient with villagers, more forceful in his accusations. Even Mr. Clarke has noticed, casting wary glances as Warren speaks with heat and fury at the morning hearings. But nothing douses the fire.

You remain untouched. Unspoiled. And that itches at something primal in him. A temptation not just of the flesh, but of power. To take what is pure and make it his. To own it - to defile it.

The fourth afternoon, the house is quiet. Mr. Clarke is at the chapel, and your mother has gone to the market. You’re alone, seated in a small chair by the window. The light falls in stripes through the shutter slats, illuminating the yellowed pages of a worn book in your lap. You read silently, lips parting slightly as your eyes scan the pages. You don’t hear him enter. You only notice him when his shadow casts over you. The book falls from your hands.

“M-Mr. Warren-”

His voice is velvet-draped steel. “You can read?”

You freeze, heart hammering. “I … please, sir … I taught myself. I-I’d sneak into the schoolhouse when it was empty. Only to watch the letters. I’m not a witch, I swear it-”

He holds up a hand. “Calm.”

You fall silent, and he steps forward slowly, gaze on you like a knife. Then he crouches before your chair, knees folding with unnerving grace, one hand on the carved armrest, the other reaching down to pick up the book. He reads the cover: a collection of stories. Fables, but some - he knows the titles - carry more … carnal undertones. Subtle and buried between the lines.

He lifts his gaze to you again, blue eyes piercing into yours. “I do not think you are a witch, my dear,” he says softly. “But I must confess, I am concerned … what you may be feeding your mind with.”

You shift anxiously.

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “A delicate thing like you could be exposed to all sorts of perversions in books such as these.”

His hand moves - slowly, carefully - to your knee. You gasp softly, lips parting, but you don’t move. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t break eye contact.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing gently against your leg. “Have you ever read such things, (Y/N)? The … improper sort?”

Your breath catches and your eyes go wide. You nod, just once. A smile creeps onto his face, and there’s something dark in it.

“Of course you have,” he whispers, hand inching higher, just above your knee now, resting warm through the thin cotton of your dress.

“Have you ever bedded a man?” he asks softly, already knowing the answer.

You shake your head. “No, sir…”

“Mm.” His voice deepens, a growl beneath honey. He squeezes your leg gently. “A virgin, then.”

You jolt, heart pounding. “Yes. I-I would never, not before marriage. It would be-”

“Sinful,” he finishes for you, nodding solemnly. “Yes. A grave sin indeed.”

His hand glides a few inches higher, just grazing the tender skin of your thigh beneath the fold of your skirts. You freeze, trembling.

“Yet…” he leans in closer, his breath hot against your cheek, “some sins are not punished by fire…”

Then, the door creaks - and he’s on his feet in a heartbeat, hand vanishing from your leg like a ghost pulled back into the void. Mr. Clarke steps inside.

“Ah! Warren,” Clarke says, casually. “There you are. The constable seeks you.”

Mr. Warren’s voice is calm and composed. “I shall attend him shortly.”

Clarke doesn’t notice you sitting stiff and wide-eyed in the chair, hands clasped in your lap. Warren doesn’t look at you again as he walks out of the door, but you feel it - an invisible hand still lingering, the air thick with a silence that weighs heavy between your thighs. The book still lies open on the floor.

You don’t go downstairs that evening. Your mother calls for you twice, but your voice catches in your throat. You manage some excuse - a headache, womanly ailments. She doesn’t question further. The fire’s already low, and supper is plain. She leaves bread and broth outside your chamber door. You don’t touch it.

You sit on your bed, skirts still wrinkled, knees drawn to your chest. Your hands press against your cheeks as if they might cool the heat that hasn’t left since he touched you. You can still feel it - his hand. The weight of it. The heat through your dress. The unholy stillness in the room when he pressed his thumb to your knee, when his voice dropped to something different. Not a judge’s voice. Not a godly man’s voice. A man’s voice. Wanting.

It should repulse you. It does, in part. But the other part - the deeper, more secret part - you don’t understand. Not fully. It frightens you because it didn’t feel like fear - it felt like falling. Like your body knew something your soul had not yet confessed. When he asked if you’d read of those things, he already knew. And when you nodded, you had the terrible, thrilling feeling that he was pleased. Your thighs press together now, as if to ward off the memory - but it won’t go. Not the sight of him kneeling before you like some false idol, nor the warmth of his palm on your leg, nor the dark hunger in his eyes when he asked if you’d been defiled.

You shake your head to drive the thought out, but it roots itself deeper. You don’t pray that night. You lie awake - and you burn.

Down the hall, in his own chamber, Mr. Warren does not sleep either. He stands by the fire with his cloak still on, one hand braced against the mantel as the flames flicker. His reflection wavers in the brass polish of the fireguard - pale and wanting. But he does not feel ashamed - he feels alive. You’ve awoken something in him - something dormant beneath years of ash and false righteousness. He tried to ignore it at first - told himself it was simply hunger, or temptation sent from the Devil.

But now he knows better; he is not being tested. He’s being offered something. The thought of you, curled up in that servant’s bed - haunted and flushed - thighs clenched together in innocent confusion. It makes his mouth water. The purity is not a barrier - it is the point. You are unsullied, untouched by man or wickedness, yet you read of sin in secret. You know the shape of the apple before it touches your lips.

He imagines you again - head bowed, hands clasped, whispering prayers that your body no longer believes. And in that moment, he knows - he will ruin you. Not quickly. Not like the others - not with fire or rope. But slowly, privately, sin by sin, thought by thought. He will unravel you until you are knelt not in fear of Hell, but in worship of him. And when you finally break, when you offer yourself with trembling hands and wet eyes - that will be his absolution. The fire cracks, and he smiles.

The house is quiet again - but this quiet is different. It buzzes. The wind has died outside. The fire downstairs has turned to ash. Your mother has long since retired to her chamber, and Mr. Clarke is still at the church. The halls are black.

You lie curled on your bed beneath a thin blanket, facing the wall, hands beneath your cheek, eyes wide open. You haven’t slept; every sound in the house makes your heart leap. Every creak in the wood, every stir of wind, every shift of fabric makes you think he’s near. And tonight, you're right.

Your door opens and you freeze. It’s not the house groaning. Not the wind. A hand on the latch. The door slips open without a sound, and you don't dare turn. Don't breathe. You hear the soft scuff of boots across the floorboards. Slow. Measured. Then nothing. Until the covers lift and the bed dips behind you.

You let out the tiniest, involuntary breath. A hand - his hand - finds your waist under the blanket, squeezing possessively, and something hard presses into the small of your back. You’ve read enough books to know what it is.

His voice is breathy against your neck. Rough. "Have you ever thought about being taken, (Y/N)?"

Your breath shudders and you squeeze your eyes shut - but you nod. Slowly and silently. The truth - awful and forbidden - escapes from your trembling body into the sheets.

He hums. Not with kindness - with satisfaction. "You need a man like me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "A man who knows how to keep delicate things safe..." His hand tightens at your hip, thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles into your nightdress. "...and how to take what he desires."

You whine and squeeze your thighs together instinctively, and you feel him grow harder against your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, grinding on you as he does so. The weight of him, the heat of his breath, it's overwhelming. Suffocating. You feel shame flood your face, but it doesn't reach your limbs. You can't move. You don't know what you want - only that he's here, and that he knows. He always knows. His mouth lingers near your neck.

"You've kept yourself pure all this time," he murmurs. "And for what? For a husband? Some boy?" His hand slides slowly up, reaching the curve of your breast. He gropes at your chest and holds back a groan. "No," he whispers. "You were made for something more. You were made for me.”

And just when your breath catches - there’s a knock at the front door downstairs. Warren freezes. Another knock - sharp and insistent. Then your mother's voice, muffled, calling out into the night. He exhales through his nose, and for a moment, you feel rage beneath his breath. A storm about to break. But then, he withdraws. Hand gone. Heat gone. The bed rises as he stands. You hear him move in deliberate steps, and the door closes behind him with barely a sound.

You lie there, heart pounding, body burning, fingers clutching the edge of the blanket as though it might save you. But nothing will save you now - not from him. Not from yourself.

Outside the room, Mr. Warren is a storm in fine clothing. He descends the stairs with composed steps - measured and calculated - but inside he seethes. The knock at the door, the voice of your mother - interruptions, nothing more. Irksome delays in what he knows now is divine purpose. He had touched you - breath against your neck. Pressed himself against the soft curve of your back and felt your answer in the tremble of your breath. You didn’t speak. You didn’t resist. You nodded.

The thought of it claws at his chest. He presses his palm against it as he enters the cold front hall, muttering under his breath as your mother opens the door to some wretch babbling about something occurring at the farm. He barely hears it; his eyes are not on anyone else. They’re upstairs, in the darkness, where you still lie. He will not sleep tonight. Not now.

He knows what must come next. It is no longer enough to watch you. To dream of you. To steal moments like a hidden lover. That is the behavior of a man. Mr. Warren is no mere man. He is ordained. He is a weapon of God’s will. And if he wants you, then it is because Heaven commands it. And Heaven is never wrong.

He must bind you to him. Not just in body, but in mind and soul. Innocent, though you are, you have tasted the world through stories and imagination. You are already ripe. But you don’t yet know what you crave. He will show you. He will create a reason to keep you close. A lie. A small one. Not an accusation - no, not yet. That would burn the fruit before it’s ready. But it would be enough to summon you. To place you under watch - his watch.

He imagines it now; he would speak softly. Confide in you. Tell you that he alone believes you are good - but others are not so sure. It will frighten you, but more importantly - it will isolate you. And then he will offer comfort. Protection.

And when you begin to lean into him, unsure and trembling, he will take you fully. He will possess you in body and soul. And when you beg - because you will - he will teach you that purity is a myth, and obedience is the only virtue worth keeping.

His lips curl at the thought. This is no longer lust. It is a sacrament. He ascends the stairs again in silence, passing your door. He doesn’t enter this time - he waits. Because the next time he touches you, it will be with purpose. With control. And you, trembling beneath his hand, will thank him.

Chapter 2: The Undoing

Summary:

Now deep under his control, Mr. Warren fractures your innocence piece by piece, until every last bit of you belongs to him.

The morning breaks dull and grey. The fog that once clung to the village now snakes through the trees like something alive, coiling between stones and fenceposts. There’s a stillness to the air, heavy and watchful. You wake late. Your limbs feel sluggish - your sleep fractured by dreams you don’t understand and dare not speak aloud. You dress quietly, your fingers trembling as you fasten the ties of your bodice, the memory of last night still clinging to your skin like smoke.

Your mother says little over breakfast. She’s distracted, brow furrowed, hands wringing. You know better than to ask. She only looks up when the door creaks open. It’s not sharp - not urgent. It’s measured. Mr. Clarke stands in the threshold, hat in hand. Behind him looms Mr. Warren, eyes fixed not on your mother, but past her. On you.

“Good morning,” Clarke says with a polite nod. “We hope we aren’t intruding.”

“Of course not,” your mother stammers, stepping aside. “Please, come in-“

“No need,” Warren cuts in, his voice velvet over stone. “We’ve only come for the girl.”

You freeze. Your spoon slips from your fingers into the bowl with a dull clatter.

“Sir?” your mother asks, paling.

Warren’s tone is grave, but not cruel. “There are … concerns. Faint ones. Whispers only. I do not believe them myself,” he adds, eyes flicking back to you. “But in the interest of fairness, I must investigate.”

Your mother makes a sound of protest, but Clarke gently touches her shoulder. “No formal charges, I assure you. We merely wish to speak with her. In private.”

You rise, legs stiff beneath your skirts. Warren steps back to allow your passage, and when you draw near, his hand touches the small of your back - light, barely there - and yet, it brands you. He leans close as he guides you from the house, and whispers just loud enough for only you to hear.

“You need not be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

The chapel is empty, save for the three of you. Clarke remains by the door, arms crossed, while Warren leads you into a side chamber lit only by the flicker of a single taper. It’s cold inside - cold and hushed - the walls lined with old books and dust-laden tapestries. He motions for you to sit on a wooden bench. You do. He remains standing.

“There are those,” he begins, voice calm and even, “who believe that knowledge beyond one’s station is a sign of corruption. That for a servant girl to read, to seek more, must mean she is touched by something unnatural.”

Your breath catches. “I- I never meant-”

“I know,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “I know what you are. I’ve seen your heart, girl. I know it is good. But others…” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “There is jealousy in this town. They speak of your curiosity. Your cleverness. And the purity you wear so plainly.”

He kneels before you again, as he did before - but this time, not to intimidate. This time, he plays the shepherd.

“I don’t believe you are guilty of anything. But if the others begin to speak more loudly…” He trails off, then meets your eyes, solemn and searching. “I will protect you. But it must appear official. That you are under my care - my watch.”

You nod, throat dry. “Yes, sir. Whatever you think best.”

He smiles faintly. “Good girl.”

A pause. Then, he reaches out, and brushes a loose strand of hair from your cheek. The motion is gentle. Reverent. But it makes your skin spark.

“This will be a quiet arrangement,” he murmurs. “You will come to my private quarters each day, at the hour I assign. You will stay within the estate otherwise. Speak only to your mother. Do not be seen with others. Do not speak of this … attention. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“And,” he adds, voice lower now, “you must confide in me. If you feel anything unnatural. If you dream. If you wake flushed or uncertain. The devil works in subtleties. And I must know everything, if I am to keep you from him.”

Your cheeks burn. You can’t hold his gaze.

He stands, smoothing down his coat. “Go now. Return to your chores. But after supper, when the house is still - come to my chambers.”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Warren.”

He says nothing more. But as you pass him to leave, he lets his hand fall to your lower back again, warm and deliberate. You feel it even as you walk out into the cold.

That night, you do as told. The estate is silent when you slip down the hall in your house-shoes, your shift tucked modestly beneath a heavy shawl. You knock once on the his door. It opens before you finish.

Warren stands in the candlelight, shirt unfastened at the throat, vest gone. He looks less like a magistrate tonight - more like something primal. Still composed, but stripped of the armor he wears in daylight. You step inside, the door shutting with finality behind you.

“Come,” he says simply, nodding toward the chair beside the fire.

You sit, and he watches you a moment - those eyes like cold iron - then takes his place opposite you.

“I have questions,” he says, voice low. “And you must answer with honesty. Even if it shames you.”

You nod, fingers wringing in your lap.

He leans forward slightly. “Do you ever dream of wicked things?”

Your lips part. You hesitate. “Yes.”

He nods once. “Have you ever touched yourself, (Y/N)?”

You stare at the floor. “Yes…”

A pause. He doesn’t move. “Describe it.”

“Sir-“

“Do not lie,” he says softly. “The devil lives in silence.”

Your voice shakes. “Only … when I was alone. At night. I read something in a book. It described how it might feel. I- I didn’t do much. Just … touched.”

He breathes slow through his nose, as if steadying himself. His gaze drops to your hands. “Where?”

You swallow. “Between my legs.”

“Over or beneath the cloth?”

You hesitate. “Beneath.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, his jaw flexing, not in anger - in restraint.

“Did you reach … the end?”

You nod, barely.

“And what did you think of, when you did it?”

Your breath hitches. You can’t answer.

“I think,” he says quietly, “you thought of something you believed was wrong. But it wasn’t. It was natural. You are natural.”

Then, he stands. You don’t move. Not until he crosses to your side and lifts your chin with his fingers.

“You must confess it all, in time,” he murmurs. “Piece by piece. I will cleanse you of the guilt, not the desire. The desire is His gift. But only in the hands of the worthy.”

His thumb brushes your jaw. “And I am worthy, (Y/N). Do you believe that?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, Mr. Warren.”

“Then kneel.”

You hesitate.

“Kneel,” he repeats - not cruelly. Commandingly. As if it is holy.

You slip from the chair, shawl falling from your shoulders. You kneel before him on the rug, eyes to the ground, breath short. You feel the heat between your thighs, the echo of memory and fear and longing pulsing there. He places his hand on your head - like a benediction.

"Look at me, little lamb," he says, voice low and even. "When you're frightened, you drop your gaze. I want it raised."

Your eyes flick up to meet his, wide and longing.

“Good,” he breathes. “Very good.”

And he smiles - not with joy. Not with cruelty. With certainty. The room is so quiet you can hear the soft tick of the clock and the low crackle of the hearth. You kneel obediently, hands folded in your lap, staring at the sheen of Mr. Warren’s polished boots. Your pulse thrums like war drums in your ears. His hand rests lightly atop your head - not heavy, not oppressive. But it lingers.

“Do you feel it?” he asks, voice almost reverent.

You don’t answer. You aren’t sure what it is - shame, desire, or something deeper and more twisted.

He kneels slowly, lowering himself to your level, still facing you, his eyes level with yours now. “There is power in surrender,” he says. “And clarity. When a lamb kneels before its shepherd, it is not weakness. It is trust.”

You nod. He watches you for a long time. The kind of watching that dissects - not just your face, but your soul.

“I will teach you,” he says finally, “how to resist the devil. Not through denial. But through obedience. Through structure.”

His hand moves from your head to your jaw, tilting your chin upward. “From this night forward, you answer only to me. You speak only the truth in this room. And you obey. No matter how difficult. No matter how … unusual the lesson.”

Your lips part. “Yes, Mr. Warren.”

A cold, sickening smile curves his lips. “Good. Then we begin.”

He stands, and gestures toward the rug. “Lie down. On your back.”

You hesitate - for the first time since entering the room. But the hesitation isn’t born of defiance. It’s fear. Not of him, exactly - of yourself. Of the heat already blooming between your legs, the pulse that tightens your belly as you lower yourself onto the rug. He watches you with the intensity of a scholar. Focus laced with barely-contained lust.

“Lift your dress,” he says.

Your breath shudders. “Sir…”

He crouches beside you. “You must be cleansed of shame. You cannot be afraid of your body - not when it is mine to protect. Obedience is purity.”

You close your eyes. Your fingers move to the hem. You lift the thin cotton up to your thighs - just enough that the cool air brushes your skin. His breath catches, barely audible, but you hear it.

“You’ll lie here like this,” he says, “each night, before bed. Alone. For ten minutes. Hands flat at your sides. Legs parted. Not touching - only knowing. It is discipline. Not indulgence.”

Your legs tremble as you part them slightly, heat rising to your cheeks.

“And you will come here each night, and report what you felt. If your thoughts were clean. If your body betrayed you. If you longed to be touched.” He leans down slightly, his lips near your ear. “If you longed to be taken.”

You gasp. He rises.

“I will not touch you tonight,” he says, as if it’s an act of mercy. “Not yet. But the time will come. And when it does, you will not ask why.”

He turns away, collecting a small leather-bound book from his desk and setting it on a side table. “This is your journal,” he says. “You will write in it. Every evening. Your thoughts. Your struggles. Your dreams. Seal it and place it on my desk. I will read each word.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looks over his shoulder at you - your legs still spread on the rug, shift wrinkled, hands clenched at your sides.

“You may go.”

You lower your skirt quickly and stand, shaking slightly. As you pass him on the way to the door, his hand brushes yours. Only briefly. But it lingers.

“And, (Y/N)…” he murmurs as you touch the handle.

You glance back.

“Do not speak of this to your mother. Or to anyone.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

He smiles again. It is the most terrible and beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Good girl.”

Later that night, you lie on your own bed, as instructed. Shift gathered around your hips. Legs parted. The moonlight casts silver across your bare thighs. You do not touch yourself. But your whole body aches to. Your hand hovers over your lower belly. Not touching. Just wanting. And tomorrow, you will return to him. Because obedience is easier than confusion. Because he speaks to you like no one else ever has. Because in some dark and inexplicable part of yourself, you want to be ruined.

The second night arrives with the same hush as the first. Fog curls around the corners of the estate like breath from a mouth too close. Your mother retires early- wearied by chores, or perhaps by the tension she can't name but feels in her bones. You stand at your bedroom door, shawl tight around your shoulders, fingers trembling on the latch. You know where you're going. You know what waits - and still, you go.

His door opens before you can knock. He is already waiting - seated in a high-backed chair, sleeves rolled, coat folded neatly beside him. The firelight paints him gold and crimson, as though he's been forged there. He doesn't smile when he sees you. But he nods once - approving.

You step inside. The door clicks shut.

"Did you obey?" he asks. His voice is calm. Even.

You nod. "Yes, Mr. Warren."

"Describe it."

You swallow. "I lay on the bed. Like you said. I didn't touch myself."

"But your body responded, didn't it?"

You hesitate. "Yes."

"And your thoughts?"

Your voice drops. "Not clean, sir."

A beat. His jaw tics. He stands slowly. "Remove your shawl."

You do, and he steps close - not touching you yet, just towering - and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are very brave," he murmurs. "You think obedience is easy. It is not. It's agony. And yet you return."

He steps back. "Sit."

You obey, lowering yourself to the same spot on the rug. This time, you know what's coming.

"Lift your nightdress," he says again. "Legs apart. Show me your discipline."

You do it with shaking hand, but he doesn't remain distant tonight - not this time.

He kneels beside you - this time on the rug, eye-level once more - and studies the shape of you. Your skin flushed. Your thighs trembling. The cotton hiked up, barely covering anything. Then, he touches you. A single fingertip pressed gently to the inside of your thigh. You jolt. A sound escapes your throat - half gasp, half whimper.

"Still," he commands.

You hold still - barely. His hand slides upward slowly, palm broad and warm, until it rests just beside where you burn the most. He doesn't touch you there - not yet. But you can feel how close he is. And your body aches for it - that final inch, that unbearable, unholy contact.

"You see?" he murmurs. "Even without touch, you are weak."

You blink tears from your lashes. He brushes his thumb along your inner thigh.

"But weakness is not sin. It is invitation. It is the door through which righteousness enters."

He moves his hand. Higher. Closer. But still - not there.

"You want me to touch you," he says. Not a question. A statement of law.

"Yes..." you whisper, hating yourself for it.

He nods, pleased. "And you will beg for it, in time. Not because I demand it. But because your body will.”

His hand leaves you. You almost sob. But he isn't finished.

"Lie back."

You do. His hand finds your stomach, resting flat across the cloth of your shift, anchoring you in place. His other hand moves again to your thigh - and this time, it does touch you.

The first stroke is featherlight - a ghost across your soaked folds. Through the cloth still, but enough to make you buck. He shushes you.

"Quiet."

He strokes again - slower. Firmer.
Your breath turns ragged. The heat in you rises like smoke from a witch's pyre.

"You are wet," he says, matter-of-fact. "Do you know why?"

You nod. "Yes..."

"Say it."

"Because ... because I want you, sir." A pause. He stifles a growl at your confession, hand pressing more firmly. Your hips lift.

"That is the truth. And the truth is holy."

You whimper - but hold still. He teases you with maddening patience, keeping the cloth in place. Never letting your skin meet his fingers directly. A lesson in denial. But you're already close. Too close.

You tremble. Your legs begin to shake.

"Do not come," he says.

"I- I can't-"

"You will not disobey me."

He stops. Pulls his hand away. You cry out before you can stop yourself. Then, his hand slaps the inside of your thigh sharply. Not cruel - corrective. You freeze.

His voice is low. "You will learn to hold your pleasure. It is not yours to take. It is mine to give."

You swallow hard, the words searing into your skin more surely than any brand. You’re still trembling, thighs pressed tightly together now, breath sharp and uneven.

Mr. Warren watches you a moment longer with lust and calculation. You can feel it in the way his gaze flicks down your body and returns to your face, as though he’s measuring the depth of your obedience - weighing the soul beneath the skin.

Then, quietly, he steps back. “Stand.”

You do, slow and shaky.

“Straighten your clothes. Compose yourself.”

Your fingers fumble with the hem of your shift. You fix it as best you can, avoiding his eyes. He doesn’t speak again until you’re still, shoulders back, hands folded.

“You feel shame,” he says. “That is good. Shame is the mark of a soul not yet lost.”

You blink, surprised. He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable.

“It is not your purity that matters, girl,” he continues. “It is your willingness. Your obedience. There is holiness in surrender. But only when it is given, not stolen.”

A long pause.

“You are not yet ready,” he says finally. “But you will be.”

You glance up at that. Just a flicker. He sees it - and smiles, faint and terrible.

“Tomorrow, you will come to me in silence. You will kneel when I tell you to. And you will thank me.”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Warren.”

“Good.” His voice softens almost to a whisper. “Now go. And do not pray. Not tonight.”

You hesitate.

“No prayers,” he repeats, more firmly. “God is not listening. Only I am.”

You turn and leave. And as you step into the quiet hallway, the flickering shadows feel deeper than before - not darker, but closer. Like something is waiting in them. Watching. You do not go to your bed right away. You sit instead by the small window in your chamber, eyes fixed on the fog outside, arms wrapped around yourself. You do not pray - just as he told you.

He doesn’t sleep - not truly. He lies on the bed like a corpse, arms rigid at his sides, staring up at the ceiling as though it might collapse and bury him - and it would be a mercy. Your scent is still on his fingers. Faint. Not enough. Never enough. He had touched you. Just a little. And the softness of your thighs, the trembling under his hand - it replays again and again behind his eyes like a hymn on repeat. You didn’t even resist. You obeyed. Like a lamb. Like you belonged to him already. And that obedience - God above.

He turns over sharply, cock hard and straining beneath the sheets, fists clenched in the linens, jaw tight. His body is a battleground. He wants you in ways that fracture scripture. There is no righteousness left in him - only the form of it, hollowed out and filled with hunger. He had to pull back - had to stop. Not because he wanted to - because he nearly lost control.

He had felt it rising in him - that dangerous edge. The moment where one more second, one more gasp from your lips, would’ve tipped him past the point of command. He would have ruined everything. You. Himself. He needs you to kneel first. He needs to own you, mind and soul - not just flesh. So he waits. Barely.

The next night, the house is silent again. You don’t wear your shawl this time. You know where you’re going. You’ve worn your plainest nightdress, but somehow it clings tighter now. Everything does, since he touched you. Since he looked at you like he could tear the world apart just to keep you beneath him.

You knock once, and like before, the door creaks open before your knuckles fall a second time. He stands inside, already turned toward you. Already watching. And you see it - just for a flicker - the fray at the edges of him. His collar is slightly askew. His coat is buttoned unevenly. His mouth is drawn tight, but his eyes burn in a way they hadn’t before. Not just desire. Desperation.

“Come,” he says.

You enter, and the door closes behind you like a seal.

“Remove your dress.”

Your heart jumps - not at the command itself, but at the strain in his voice when he gives it. Like it’s costing him something - or he’s not sure he can wait much longer. You lift the hem slowly, your fingers trembling. It rises past your thighs, your hips, your ribs. You pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor.

Completely naked. In front of a man. For the first time. His breath stutters, barely audible, but you hear it. You stand still.

His gaze drags over you like a knife - and he doesn’t move. Not for a long, long moment.

Then, “Come here.”

You take one step. Another. Until you’re in front of him. He still hasn’t touched you. He looks at you like he’s trying to commit you to memory before something inside him breaks.

“You could not possibly understand,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You could never comprehend what you are doing to me.”

Then he reaches out - finally - and his hand curls around your jaw. Not rough. Not yet. But possessive. His thumb strokes your cheek, then your lower lip. Your mouth parts instinctively.

He hisses a quiet breath. “That’s it. Obedient little thing…”

His other hand slides to your back, pulls you forward, until your bare body is pressed against the front of his coat. The friction makes you shiver.

“I have waited,” he growls against your ear. “I have held back. Prayed. Fought. But you…”

His hand grips your hip, fingers digging in. “You were made for me to ruin.”

You gasp - and he smiles darkly

“Now,” he murmurs, guiding you downward. “On your knees, my girl.”

You sink slowly, never breaking his gaze, though your lashes flutter under the weight of his attention. The air feels tighter this low, like you've slipped beneath something - a spell, a command, a hand pressed firm against your soul. The floor is cold against your knees.

Mr. Warren doesn't speak right away, he looks down at you. You, kneeling. Naked. Waiting. And for the first time, you see it; he's shaking - only slightly. Barely a tremor in his fingers where they hang at his sides. But it's there. He's wanted this - wanted you - with a hunger so deep it's emptied something out inside him. You can see it now, up close. He isn't calm. He isn't composed. He's starving. His hand moves - slowly - and comes to rest beneath your chin, tilting your face up.

"You kneel for me now," he murmurs. "Not for God. Not for salvation. This-" he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers, “this is worship."

You nod once, slowly, and he exhales like it's the first breath he's allowed himself in days.

"I could take you now," he says. The words are low. Tight. "I could press you to the floor. Spread you open. I could make you mine in the basest, rawest sense - and you'd let me, wouldn't you?"

You swallow. "Yes, Mr. Warren."

That flicker of control falters behind his eyes again. But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he steps around you, slowly, until he's behind you. You hear the rustle of his coat as he kneels too, one knee on the ground beside yours. His hand smooths up your spine, fingers splayed, reverent. Not lustful. Claiming.

"You don't understand what it means yet," he murmurs against your neck. "To be owned. Not fully. But you will."

His mouth hovers near your ear. "I'll teach you. I'll unmake everything you thought was holy. You'll learn that the only mercy left in this world lives in my hands."

His tongue touches the shell of your ear, just barely, and you whimper. The sound is small, involuntary - and it undoes something in him. He doesn’t move for a moment. Doesn’t breathe. His face lingers by your ear, lips parted as if in prayer, though no holy words pass through them. Just breath. Heavy, restrained. You feel the tension radiating from him, tight as a knot.

Then he pulls back - not far - just enough for his hand to rest on the back of your neck, fingers curling slightly. Not cold, but commanding.

“You are easily shaken,” he says. “But not broken. Not yet.”

You can’t respond. You wouldn’t know how. He doesn’t expect you to. His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, down the curve of your back - slow, steady, reverent - and you shiver beneath the weight of it. You blink, trying to steady your breath, but your skin burns wherever he touches.

“You will thank me for these lessons,” he says. “When your knees are bruised from obedience. When your lips learn to part only for instruction or praise. That’s when you’ll begin to understand your purpose.”

A beat passes.

Then, “Rise.”

You do - trembling. Still bare, eyes lowered. His gaze is dangerous. Beautiful. Inevitable.

“I want your mind as much as your body,” he says, stepping close. “And I will have both.”

He brushes a finger under your chin, lifts your gaze. The room is too quiet. Too charged. He watches you like a man who has walked through fire only to find himself wanting more of the burn. His chest heaves once - not deeply, but sharp. Controlled, until it isn't. You stand before him, bare and waiting, and that's when something in him breaks. His hand reaches out, almost in disbelief, and brushes your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your throat, feeling your racing pulse beneath his fingers.

You don't flinch. That's all it takes. He surges forward, hands seizing your face, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It is not gentle. It is not patient. It is the kind of kiss that has waited too long - one born of silence, repression, and far too many nights spent whispering your name into the dark. His lips are hot, bruising, hungry. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and he groans into your mouth like it pains him to taste you. His facial hair creates a delicious friction against your soft skin.

It’s your first real kiss - not stolen behind a chapel or whispered in the dark, but taken by a man who commands storms, and now turns all that force inward, into you. One hand tangles in your hair, angling your head just how he wants it, while the other wraps around your lower back and drags you to him - body to body, chest to chest.

You gasp against him, and he takes that sound like a gift - deepens the kiss until your knees nearly buckle. His hand slides down, firm over your hips, pulling you into the hard line of his desire. He's been holding back for too long - and now he can't. He kisses you like a man trying to carve your shape into his memory. Like someone who might go mad if he stops.

His hand slides to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him, as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your breath mingles with his - desperate, uneven - and your fingers, unsure at first, find their way to the front of his coat, clutching the fabric like it’s the only solid thing in the world. He groans into your mouth, deep and low, as if the sound’s been trapped in him for years.

And then he pulls back - barely. Just enough to look at you. His eyes are wild. Starved. A man undone.

“You know not,” he says, voice raw, “what you have done to me.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply; his hands are back on you - one cupping your jaw, the other trailing down your spine. He presses another kiss to your lips, this one slower, but no less desperate. His mouth moves like it’s learning you. Claiming you. It’s not just hunger anymore. It’s possession. Need. Obsession.

And when he finally breaks away again, he stares down at you with something fevered in his expression - part reverence, part ruin.

“This isn’t how I meant it to begin,” he admits, voice tight. “But I would burn for this. For you.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, now swollen from his kiss.

“And I will, if I must.”

You freeze, stunned, breath caught - before your body starts to remember how to move. You kiss him this time, clumsily, hesitantly. Your lips part under his, hands rising like they don’t know where to go - one curling in the fabric of his coat, the other brushing his chest, trembling. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the feel of his mouth - hot and claiming - or the way your whole body leans into his like it knows it belongs there.

He groans into your mouth, low and ragged, like the sound’s being dragged from someplace deep. His grip tightens around you, pulling you closer, as though your inexperience only feeds the fire in him. Your lips part more fully. You mimic his movements, unsure, and when his tongue brushes yours, a small gasp escapes you - startled, unguarded. He swallows the sound greedily. The kiss is dizzying - a storm behind your ribs, a thousand thoughts all screaming at once and none of them clear.

You’re overwhelmed. You’re burning. And you don’t want him to stop. But he does. Only barely. When he pulls back, his breath stutters, warm against your lips. His hands don’t leave you - one still cradling your jaw, the other wrapped tight around your waist. His eyes blaze as they search your face, your parted lips, the flushed skin of your throat.

“You kissed me,” he says softly. There’s disbelief in his voice. And something else. Something more dangerous. Pride. Desire.

You nod, dazed, breath catching - not from fear, not entirely. But from the truth in his voice. Because you feel ruined - not by force, not by sin, but by the want. The way your body leans into him, the way your lips still tingle, the way your heart is hammering as if to say, ‘yes, yes, yes.’

You don’t know what to do with it - this heat, the need, the ache that’s now rooted somewhere low and secret inside you. You feel fragile and wild all at once. He's enjoying this. Not just the sight of you- naked, blushing, uncertain yet wanting - but your confusion. Your innocence. The way your thighs press together. How you tremble against him. Why you can't look away. He sees all of it. And he drinks it in.

"Do you ever think about me,” he murmurs, grip tight at your waist. “When you touch yourself?"

You swallow gravely. You want to lie. But you don’t. “Yes…”

He releases a shaky breath, but his voice is like silk. "You imagine what it feels like? Skin against skin. Teeth against your neck. You wonder if it would hurt the first time. If it would bleed."

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes.

"Sweet thing," he mutters, squeezing at your flesh, the heat of his presence dizzying. "You pray to be good. But your body wants wickedness."

You don’t reply. Can’t.

"Let me show you, little lamb," he murmurs against your ear, "how easily saints are unmade."

His fingers trace the skin of your collarbone - slow and reverent, like he's touching a relic, not a girl. You shiver.

"Please," you whisper, not knowing whether you mean stop or don't. You’ve craved this, but now it’s here in front of you, fear coils in your stomach.

Mr. Warren does not stop. His palm flattens over your chest, warm and sure, fingers splaying over your heart. He can feel it pounding. You're sure of it. You can barely breathe. Both hands come to cup your breasts now, rough and calloused against the softness of your skin. You gasp as his thumbs brush over your hard nipples, and you peer up at him with wide eyes. He lets out a low sound from deep in his chest, laced with restraint. His grip on you tightens, groping and pawing at you, eyes flicking between your chest and your face, drinking in every expression. A whimper escapes you, and your thighs inadvertently press together when he pinches the delicate skin.

"Do you know what this means?" he asks, voice like a knife wrapped in silk. "Letting me see you like this. Touch you like this."

You nod, barely.

"Say it."

"I ... I want you to."

His breath catches - you feel it. He groans, low and sharp, and it sounds almost angry. "Good girl," he growls.

And then his mouth is on your neck, hot and open, wetting your skin with hungry kisses. You tilt your head, giving him more. He moves down your shoulders, kissing every bit of skin inch by inch - worshipping and ruining you in the same breath.

He reaches for your wrist, gently, and pulls your hand toward him. Then lower. Toward the front of his trousers. You gasp softly as your palm brushes something beneath the fabric - hard, hot, and unmistakable. Your fingers twitch.

"You have never touched a man like this?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

You shake your head. He smiles darkly. He doesn't move your hand. He doesn't have to. He only watches as your fingers curl, unsure, pressing against his shaft through the cloth.

"Slowly," he murmurs. "Let your hands learn."

Your breath catches as you stroke - awkward, tentative - but he groans faintly. You feel it vibrate through your fingertips.

"That's it," he breathes. "You feel how hard you make me? That is not sin. That is power."

Your face floods with heat. You start to pull away, but his hand closes gently around your wrist.

"Don't. Not unless I say."

You stop. His free hand reaches for your hair, brushing it back over your shoulder. Then his fingers trail lightly down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast, circling in a way that makes you ache

"Say it," he whispers. "Say you want me."

Your voice shakes. "I want you."

He leans closer, walking you backwards until the backs of your knees hit his bed, forcing you to sit. His mouth brushes your ear.

"Then open your legs, little lamb."

Your knees part hesitantly, legs brushing against the cool linen, trembling with the weight of the invitation. It what terrifies you, and pulls you in impossibly deeper. Mr. Warren’s breath catches, but he says nothing at first. Just watches. Watches as you bare yourself in the most dreadful way a girl can. He almost snaps right there, at the sight of your bare cunt spread open just for him.

"Good," he murmurs, his voice coated in something darker than praise. "My obedient girl."

You want to close your legs, growing shy under his gaze. Every instinct begs you to. But something - his eyes, your heat, the slow curl of something unspoken - holds you still. He kneels, hands resting on his thighs, eyes tracing the shape of your vulnerability like a priest at the altar. Devoted. Your cunt glistens with arousal, soaked in a way that can only stem from longing finally breaking its chains.

"Let me teach you," he says again, voice thick with hunger, "what a man truly desires."

His hand reaches for yours, guiding it, lower, slower, to the bottom of your stomach. Too close to where you’re aching, yet not close enough. He doesn't move it further. His mouth is near your throat again, warm against your skin, and you feel his words before you hear them.

"Touch yourself for me."

You shudder. “I-“

"You will," he says, not cruelly, but as though it were already decided.

Your throat tightens, breath catching in a flutter of fear and something dangerously close to hope. You don't speak - words feel too big, too loud - but your eyes flicker to meet his. They are wide, unsure, trembling.

Yet beneath the uncertainty, a spark glimmers - a faint, desperate yearning you don't fully understand. His hands slide around your waist, firm but careful, guiding your trembling fingers down to rest at your dripping core. His eyes, dark and hungry, never leave yours, urging you on without words.

"You are beautiful," he breathes, voice low and uncharacteristically unsteady. "And you are more than what this world dares to see."

A flush rises to your cheeks, but you don't pull away. Something in the way he looks at you - this perverse worship, this possessive tenderness - makes you want to put every ounce of your trust in him. His hands come to guide yours again, moving your fingers in achingly slow circles at your clit. You bite your lip, barely muffling a sharp whimper.

His lips find your neck again, pushing you back into the softness of his bed, the promise heavy in the silence that follows. You shuffle back to lay against the pillows as he stands slowly, towering over your form, your hand still pressed to your core. Slowly, Mr. Warren strips - and every inch of skin revealed makes you press your fingers firmer between your legs. His pale frame is slender but strong, a dark dusting of hair leading from his chest down to the hem of his breeches. Your eyes widen when he removes them, cock finally springing free from its restraints. He stands completely bare in front of you now, revelling in the way your eyes widen when they drop to his shaft. His cock stands proud, pink tip sensitive and leaking.

He crawls over your body slowly, agonising - like a snake locking eyes on a mouse - and settles between your open legs. His body presses flush against you, the warmth of his shaft resting against your abdomen, the heat radiating through you like a storm. Your body trembles beneath him, a fragile thing caught in the flames of his want.

His hands explore you boldly now, roaming over your chest, your thighs, pressing, teasing, taking without permission but with certainty. You tremble - torn between shame, and a lustful ache that squeezes at your heart. Every gasp, every shudder, is a confession - whether you will it or not. Warren moves with calculated cruelty, each touch a deliberate unraveling.

Instinctively, your hands slip around his shoulders, the skin warm beneath your fingertips. His dark locks tickle your jaw when he dips his head to kiss at your neck, beard rough at your skin. You let out a soft mewl when his tongue darts out against your pulse. His mouth finds yours again to swallow every little sound - every squeak that passes your lips. His hips shift against you, cock grinding against your stomach - waiting. You bite back a moan at the notion, and his gaze meets yours, icy eyes turning ink black with blown out pupils.

Slowly, he guides your hand to his throbbing length, a broken growl escaping him when your fingers tentatively grip his shaft. It isn’t what you expected it to feet like - he’s thick and warm in your hand, every vein twitching under your palm. His eyes fall closed; finally you touch him where he aches for you most. Nothing between your heaving bodies.

He whispers against your skin, voice thick with sinful hunger. “Move your fist up and down.”

You do as he says, and the unbridled moan that rumbles from deep in his chest only encourages you.

You gaze up at him with wide eyes, “Am I doing good, sir?” Your voice is small. Weak. Practically begging for his praise.

“Perfectly, my dear,” he breathes.

You tighten your grip, unsure - but the way his breath catches and he bucks into your hand makes something coil deep in your core. Warren feels your thighs tighten at his waist, and he pauses his motions.

His voice is low, a dagger dripping with honey. “You need me to take care of you, don’t you, little lamb? Make you feel good before I stretch out your pretty little cunt?”

His salacious words make you forget how to do anything but nod. Your voice breaks in your throat when calloused fingers appear at your slick folds, completely unrestrained this time. Before your brain can stop you, your hips lift off the bed, chasing his hand. His palm comes to lay flat across your stomach, fingers splaying across the skin, pinning you in place while he continues his ministrations. His thumb spreads your arousal, landing at your clit, rubbing at the bundle of nerves in slow circles. You cry out, hands clutching at the sheets, nails clawing into the linen, hips bucking into Warren’s hand.

“Shh. That’s it, my girl. I’ve got you,” he coos. “Lord above, you’re soaking.” His voice is a whisper, barely restrained.

You whimper at that, legs falling open further, too desperate to be shy any longer. Your eyes flutter shut, panting out ragged breaths. It’s almost too much - the torturous slowness of his digits against your aching core. You feel his weight shift in the bed, and your eyes snap open with a gasp when you feel it - his tongue licking a wet stripe up your slit. Your thighs immediately lock around his head, clamping it in a vice grip; desperately trying to tether yourself. You feel his growl reverberate against your cunt as he pries your legs back open, pinning one of your hands flat against the bed, placing your other in his hair. Your fingers instinctively curl into the roots, tugging at his inky locks.

Warren laps at your cunt greedily, and the squeal you let out could wake up the entire estate. Uncontrollably, your hips buck up into his face, fingers desperately gripping at his hair. He’s only encouraged by your desperation, burying his face deeper into you, sucking and licking - tasting every bit of you. An arm comes up to pin your hips down, forcing you to take everything he’s giving you. It’s a feeling like no other. Your own fingers dull in comparison to the feeling of the witchfinder’s hot, wet tongue, his beard rubbing against the insides of your thighs. The sounds that you’re making are borderline sinful, and Warren drinks it in.

His hand trails the soft skin of your thigh while his lips latch to your clit, sucking at it gently. Your eyes roll back - and for a moment - blasphemy tastes like truth; because your God no longer looks down from above. Your God is here, in this room, undoing you piece by trembling piece. And this is your sacrament.

Without warning, his finger appears at your fluttering hole, teasing. Waiting. His sapphire eyes meet yours, and his gaze is aflame - more beast than man. You’re trembling. So is he. With pure, unrestrained want. Slowly - agonisingly slowly - his finger pushes inside of you. A sob escapes you at the stretch, and he lets out a satisfied growl. He doesn’t stop lapping at you, now paired with the slow curl of his finger, you’re achingly close. Your whole body tightens, damp with sweat and ignited from the inside out. Like Hell is welcoming you already - and you walk into the flames with open arms.

Tears prick at your eyes when he adds a second finger, preparing you for his cock. The stretch stings your virgin cunt, and he knows it. He hums happily against you, feeling the vice grip your walls have on his fingers as he curls them, gently pumping in and out of you.

“I- I feel-“

The words barely escape you before the knot in your stomach tightens. Your whole body twitches and shakes, hips bucking off the bed, vision going blank. Everything feels hot as you’re pushed over the edge, the coil in your abdomen snapping as your climax rips through you. Warren doesn’t stop - doesn’t pull his mouth from you for a second, his fingers speed up. It hurts, but your orgasm dulls it, and you ride it out against his tongue. Your thighs shake at either side of his head, panting, skin damp, and you hold back a loud whine as he overstimulates you. Hot tears fall from your eyes, and you have to push his head away.

His mouth and fingers leave your aching cunt, and when he inches back up your body, his eyes are glazed over with lust. All the ache of a man with nothing but want on his mind. His lips and beard shine with your arousal. The tip of his cock is sticky with pre-ejaculate, the veins of his shaft more prominent. He’s even harder now - and somehow he’s grown even bigger. He sees your eyes widen at the sight - breath catching in your throat - and he lets out a dark hum.

“You taste,“ he says, voice laced with a sweet ache, “like something holier than heaven - and I would forsake every paradise to kneel before you again.”

Your breath catches in your throat when he lays between your still-shaking thighs. He grips his shaft, lining himself up with your entrance.

“How is it going to fit?” you whimper.

“Well, little lamb,” Mr. Warren lets a trail of spit fall from his lips to your cunt, using the head of his cock to spread the saliva along your folds. “We shall find that out together.”

You don’t have time to process his words before he’s pushing inside of you - only the tip at first. You hiss through your teeth. A sob slips from your lips, tears burning at the corners of your eyes - not just from the pain of the stretch, but from the shattering sound of your innocence well and truly breaking. Warren stays unmoving inside of you, despite every fibre of his being burning to bury himself in you. Your cunt wraps around him deliciously. Warm and wet and untouched by anyone else. But he waits.

He coos and shushes you, kissing the salty tears that run down your cheeks, before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. Your hands curl into his hair, desperately clinging to him for comfort as he pulses inside of you. His tongue meets yours, guiding it as he laps at you, lips moving in unison. He hums with pride when you moan softly into his mouth. His hand trails down your body, finding your clit again, rubbing in gentle, deft circles.

“This should help with the pain, my darling,” he mumbles against you.

You nod, biting your lip, looking up at him through glassy eyes. Warren can’t contain himself anymore; he pushes in further. Slowly, carefully, swallowing every noise that follows, fingers smoothing your hair softly. He lets out a shaky breath when he’s completely sheathed inside you.

“You have the tightest cunt I’ve ever felt,” he pants.

You’re impossibly full, stretched out, throbbing, eyes wide and unsure, blinking tears from your eyes as you look up at him. He could cum right there. Instead, he moves - carefully. You mewl at the drag of his thick cock against your walls, his fingers still circling your clit. He pulls out so only his tip is in you now, and it takes everything in him not to slam his hips back into you at full force. He pushes back in slowly, testing, eyes not leaving your face. A breathy sigh leaves you, and he repeats the movement, dropping his head to your neck, pressing his lips to the flesh.

He breathes hot and heavy into your skin, continuing his testing motions, getting you used to the feeling of him. He almost doesn’t catch the tiny moan that leaves you as the pain starts to subside, replaced with pleasure. His fingers speed up at your clit.

“Does it feel good now, little one?”

You moan in response, nodding quickly. That’s all it takes to break him, the rhythm of his hips immediately quickening. You whimper at the feeling of being so full, letting out small whines at every thrust, legs bouncing in pace with his hips. Warren’s breath catches in his throat when your thighs lock around his waist, hands flying up to claw at his back. Moans spill from you without restraint, and he takes every single one like a hymn.

“You’re purring like a kitten, my angel.”

Your body responds before you can, arching off the bed into him, tits pressing against his body. His head drops down, licking and sucking at your nipples while his hips snap into you. You bite your lip at the overwhelming sensations that inhabit you from head to toe. Sin has never felt so holy.

Your fingers dig into him as his weight bears down, pressing you deeper into this unholy rite. His breath hitches against your skin, heavy with sin and triumph, as he claims what he believes is rightfully his. There is no longer mercy in his eyes - only the cold satisfaction of a man who has long ceased to distinguish between duty and desire. And in that suffocating dark, beneath the shadows of a God he invokes to justify his wickedness, you are lost. And you never want to be found.

Your skin slaps together in an obscene symphony. He’s rougher now, the head of his cock roughly nudging your cervix with every thrust, dragging a spot on the way out that you’ve never reached with your own fingers. You feel it swell inside of you as your second orgasm approaches. Warren feels it too as you clamp impossibly tighter around him, growling against your skin as your cunt grips him like a vice. He doesn’t stop his punishing pace against you, almost splitting you in half as he impales you with his cock.

He pushes himself up, strong arms caging you in so he can see your face now, completely fucked senseless, eyes half lidded, mouth hanging open. His hand is still fast at your clit, lubricated with your slick arousal that also coats his shaft. You’re the picture of sin, writhing beneath him - and there’s something wretched, deep in his soul, that is prideful to be responsible for it. You moan, weak, open-mouthed, pathetic, as your orgasm approaches. His pace doesn’t falter as your body convulses once more, core tightening with white-hot burning pleasure before the coil snaps once again, and you’re thrashing on the bed as your climax washes over you in deep waves. Warren looks at you like one would gaze into Heaven. It’s almost on instinct that he pulls you into a disarmingly soft kiss.

Your hole flutters around him as you mewl into his mouth through the aftershocks. Both of his rough hands grip your hips now, bruising yet tender, as he bounces you on his cock, growling like a starved animal. Guttural. Absolutely depraved. And completely beautiful. His hips stutter as they drive into your body. You’re completely spent now, too weak to move, just letting your arms fall above your head, tits bouncing freely with Warren’s motions. He watches hungrily, pulsing and twitching inside of you.

“I’m going to come,” he growls. “I’m going to fill you up. Mark you as mine.”

Your eyes widen with arousal, and you unintentionally flutter around him once more. And it’s enough to tip him over the edge. With one final shove, he’s moaning, real, gravelly, as he releases inside of you. You feel it, warm and wet, filling you up in thick, hot streams, making you whimper as he twitches, abdomen convulsing. Strands of hair fall in front of his eyes, pink lips parting. He looks almost innocent - boyish. For a split-second, you capture a glimpse of his humanity.

He rides out his orgasm slowly, until you feel him grow soft inside you. He withdraws with a reverence that borders on prayer. Your bodies, spent and sanctified, tangle beneath the weight of silence - holy and heavy. You whine at the emptiness, feeling his release leaking from your stretched hole. No longer a virgin, but something has emerged in the breaking. This confused ache behind your ribs. Nothing lost - just changed.

He pulls you close when he lies next to you, his heartbeat echoing against your ear. Fingers trace devotion into your skin, not in words, but in warmth. You fear you no longer know where he ends and you begin - only that the divine has taken new form in the cradle of his arms. The candle at his bedside sputters - its flame flickering, mirroring your trembling body. Then, with a soft sigh, it dies. Smoke curls upward, thin as incense, carrying with it the final whisper of a night written in scripture and skin.

And still - beneath the quiet of his touch, beneath the softness of his breath - there’s a silence in him you cannot name. A shadow shaped like control. But in the dark, there is no shame. Only the afterglow of worship, lit by the smoke of the flame he helped you burn.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, featherlight. You feel him breathe you in like incense, like something sacred.

Then, in the hush, “You’re mine now,” he murmurs, not possessive - just sure, like a truth spoken into existence. “And I take care of what is mine.”

His fingers brush through your hair, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something. A vow. A cage wrapped in silk.

“You were always meant to be here. With me,” he whispers, softly.

You say nothing. You don’t have to. Because in that moment, wrapped in his warmth and whatever spell he’s woven around your ribs, it feels almost like safety. Almost like love. And outside, the night holds its breath - watching a promise bloom where something else just died.