Most likely, he was richer than I was.
Giving him a hard, swift kick, he grunted. I kicked him a second time, this time even harder. Slowly, the man collected his sack of God only knew what and got to his feet. I nearly vomited from the smell of him. Pulling out my wallet, I flashed my badge. The sight of it made him move a little faster.
“I’m going, man,” he slurred. He mumbled something that resembled an apology and staggered a few steps. If he didn’t stink so bad, I might have driven my boot into him a third time.
“Go find a job, you worthless piece of shit! And I’d better not catch you on these steps again!”
Needing to get away from the putrid smell, I hurried past him, went inside, and climbed the stairs to my fourth-floor flat. I opened the door and slammed it closed behind me, the impact causing dusty drywall bits to fall to the dingy floor. I looked up and saw a crack in the ceiling caused by water damage.
“Great, just what I fucking need!”
The lowlife landlord had better fix the roof soon. My day had been terrible enough as it was. Keeping three residences wasn’t cheap and money was tight this month. I wasn’t able to pocket the cash I’d hoped to gain from today’s crack house raid when Police Commissioner Greyson decided to show up on the scene. He said he wanted to see how we were bagging evidence but I smelled his bullshit. Greyson suspected someone was skimming, and I’d be damned if I was going to give him a reason to think it was me—even if I was low on cash.
Instead, I planted a few stacks of hundred-dollar bills under the front seat of the new rookie’s cruiser. When it was found after an ‘anonymous’ tip, it would be enough to take the heat off of me for a while. Besides, the rookie was soft. His spirit may be willing, but the flesh was weak. He would never make it in this line of work.
I glanced down at the picture of my mother set among the candles on the table by the door. Ignoring the image, I lit seven wicks in preparation for later. Still, I could feel her eyes searing into me, burning my skin with accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that, Mother. It was her fault. She needed to be taught a lesson.”
There was nothing I could do about it. Gianna couldn’t be allowed to challenge me. No. She had to be obedient. My girl knew how to listen. Tonight was just an off night for her. Perhaps I took things a little too far, but she had only herself to blame. It wasn’t like I wanted to hit her.
Walking over to the corkboard covered with pictures of Gianna, I skimmed a finger over her unmarred complexion. She was so beautiful, but my mind couldn’t erase the image of her battered face. Her eye had swelled more than I’d expected from where I’d hit her. Her lush, full lower lip had split and was caked with blood right before she went backward down the stairs. That was her fault as well. However, leaving her there brought on a twinge of guilt. I should have checked on her. Instead, I’d just left her there.
Now I deserved to be punished.
My gaze traveled to the neighboring corkboard, this one filled with pictures of Cynthia. She had a harder edge, a complete contrast to my wife, and that edge was more than skin deep. Cynthia understood me in ways Gianna never would. She knew when I needed punishing and never held back. She was more ruthless in the bedroom than she was in the courtroom. Next time I was with her, she’d know what to do. Until then, I would just have to take care of matters on my own.
Turning away from the wall of corkboards, I walked back over to the table with the statue of the Virgin Mother. I turned the statue to face the wall and flipped the framed picture of my mother so it was face down on the table. They knew I needed to be punished—but that didn’t mean they had to see it.
I stripped out of my clothes, folded my pants and shirt, and placed them in a neat pile on the floor. I eyed up the tiny bottle of Chantilly that I kept on the table with all of my mother’s special things. She loved the perfume. She had thought it smelled nice and it was much cheaper than the fancier shit. I was happy when Cynthia agreed to wear it for me too.
But I couldn’t be with Cynthia today.
I scowled and tried not to think about it.
Picking up the tiny bottle, I removed the gold cap and spritzed the rose damask and jasmine eau de parfum three times over my naked body. My cock hardened as I inhaled the scent, the anticipation of what was to come almost unbearable. I replaced the cap and set the bottle back down, exactly where it had been. My eyes roamed over the seven candles burning inside red glass votive holders, each one a representation of the seven deadly sins.
Moving slowly, so as not to extinguish the flame, I picked up the candle representing pride and brought it closer. Cream colored, hot wax pooled around the flame. Leaning back, I poured the burning liquid over my chest, purging myself of all prideful desires and urges.
“God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble.”
I hissed from the brief sting as it dripped down and hardened before reaching my navel. My cock stood at attention, just tempting the wax to meet its mark. Next, I picked up the candle that embodied greed and repeated the process to eradicate all need for material wealth.
“Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them on the day of the wrath of the Lord.”
I relished the contrasting sensations of pain and pleasure, a representation of how the seven deadly sins can bring both.
After my chest was coated with the wax from all seven candles, I went to the television set and turned it on. Grabbing the remote, I aimed it at the DVD player until an overly made up brunette woman entered stage right, wearing a black leather trench coat. I’d seen this particular X-rated film before, so I knew what she wore underneath. My cock grew impossibly hard, thinking about the crotchless leather pants and matching bustier with holes cut out to reveal her pierced nipples.
“You’ve been a disobedient client. You need to be punished,” she tsked. She played the part of a lawyer—a dominatrix lawyer—who had to punish her insubordinate client, a submissive male who already ready for her, naked on his knees in front of her desk. The woman’s likeness to Cynthia was uncanny. Perhaps that’s why I was partial to this particular porn skit. Cynthia had the same allure as the woman on the screen. She was my addiction, my very own Mary Magdalene.
“Pick up the flogger, then hand it to me!” the dominatrix ordered her submissive.
As the man bent to retrieve it like she commanded, I mirrored his actions and reached for the cattail whip resting on the floor in front of the television. It was time for my punishment to begin, as well. To rid my soul of its sinful nature once again, I had to repent for my sins. Mortification of the flesh was the only true way to drive out evil.
Every time she struck her slave, I brought the knotted cords over my shoulder, meeting her lash for lash and reciting the words, following the example of Father Peter Damien, just as my mother taught me.
“My punishment was good for me, because it made me learn your commands…”
Father Damien said self-flagellation should always be accompanied by the recital of psalms. Mother said many people didn’t understand Father Damien, just as they would never understand me, and was the reason I was taught to never leave a permanent mark during my rituals.
“Be steadfast, my boy, but never leave lasting marks.”
I remembered her words and began my session slowly, with only light thumping on my back until I increased the intensity. Eventually, I lost all touch with time and space. What were only moments seemed like hours, months, or years. It wasn’t the same as when Cynthia punished me. No. when she did it, my understanding of space was completely destroyed until my body was the only connection to the physical world—where I needed to be to most clearly hear His word. It was the only way I could properly repent for my sins.