Holy Hypnosis Purity
* * *I squeeze my hands together hard, silently praying: please don’t have a slutty reaction, please God, make me pure….
Guided meditation with Pastor Alistair is supposed to be relaxing. The women’s ministry all sit primly after the general sermon, ankles crossed in our Sunday’s finest, quietly reflecting on our relationship with the Lord. Then the pastor begins to speak, and we all listen to his deep, dulcet tones.
“You are in a peaceful place, one free of sin or wicked temptation.”
The other girls all swear that they can feel God’s power as he speaks, but not me. A steady thrum always begins in my chest, radiating down my body at these words, and I squeeze my legs together uncomfortably, clenching my teeth as the tingly warmth starts to build.
“God’s light shines upon you—the purest members of our congregation. We are blessed with many chaste, modest young women at Holy Faith Church, and the Lord blesses each and every one of you for remaining virginal in thought and action in these backwards times….”
The silky smoothness of his voice reminds me of a tongue, sliding all through me, hot and wet. My nipples poke out of my conservative sweater, and I’m thankful I’ve remembered to wear my slightly padded bra to cover for me.
Think pure thoughts, I chastise myself, panicking. God’s light. Bright. So warm.
I shiver as Pastor Alistair hums deeply, the sound reverberating in my pussy. His explanations that we’ll all be rewarded with unearthly pleasures, instead of scorching torment, make me more hyper-aware of the fluttering space between my legs.
I don’t know why I’m the only one who seems to react this way, and I definitely can’t tell anybody else about it. My best friend, Janine, would have a heart attack if she knew I was sitting right beside her and slowly soaking my white, cotton panties—my insides squeezing around nothing rhythmically. The other young women would shun me, maybe even tell everyone that I’m a ‘wicked slut’, and they’d never believe that I don’t touch myself inappropriately or that I’ve never had a man up inside me. Pastor Alistair would be forced to kick me from the group . . . or excommunicate me from the church.
Hot tears prick my eyes as I try to block out the confusing sensations. Maybe it’s just an anxiety thing, I try to convince myself. I’m probably just so worried about remaining pure that my brain is freaking out. Or maybe it’s the devil, whispering perverse things in between Pastor Alistair’s words, silently but persuasively. I’ve heard that Satan is a beautiful creature of temptation and lust—and for some reason all I can picture are muscles decorating a broad, masculine body, a forbidden protrusion pointed right at my face….
“I want you to envision yourself on your knees in front of the Lord,” the pastor tells us, and I bite back a moan as my knees start to tremble, a wicked shudder going through me. My mouth waters. Everything feels too wet. “How will you remain close to him? How will you serve him every day? How will you suppress your earthly desires to satisfy his immortal ones?”
A tiny gasp escapes my lips, my body lurching in place as a strange spike of pleasure pulses deep inside me. Sweat beads at my temples, my short, blonde hair sticking to my neck, my face. My slender thighs shake.
What’s happening to me? my mind races, my blood pounding through me like a freight train.
“Miss Evergreen, are you alright?”
I blink in confusion. Is this part of the meditation? Why is the pastor addressing me specifically?
“Jodie?” Pastor Alistair rushes to me when I don’t answer, and I snap upright as his warm hand encases my shoulder. His touch makes me ache, makes me envision that hand moving down-down-down to feel at my breasts. (God, what’s wrong with me?) “You’re very flushed—are you well?”
Humiliation burns through me as I realize that everyone is looking at me with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. Do they all know how my body is reacting to the pastor’s touch? Or that I just almost climaxed while listening to his voice? At least, that’s what I think was happening to me….
Mind-masturbating like a common whore!
“I don’t feel right,” I murmur weakly.
“Someone get Jodie some water!” one of the other girls exclaims. “I bet it’s heatstroke!”
“It’s not even warm in here,” another girl mutters.
Pastor Alistair takes my hand, shushing everyone. “I’ll tend to her in my office. You are all excused.”
I bite back a groan as he squeezes my fingers, my pussy squeezing back. I can feel girl-fluids leak down my legs with each step, my sodden panties sticking to my folds obscenely. What the hell is happening to me? Alistair’s hand feels too firm in mine, too pleasant and gripping; it makes me think of his dick—how hard and warm it would feel….
I mentally shake myself as he leads me into his office, letting him gently guide me onto the plush sofa that sits alongside one wall.
“Are you thirsty, Miss Evergreen?”
“I—no,” I admit, blushing harder as his dark eyes swoop over my small, petite frame.
I’m glad I’m wearing such a thick sweater, because I can feel the hard points of my nipples slowly softening, but know they’re still poking out like whorish little bullets.
“Can you explain to me how you feel?”
“I—uh….” I don’t want to lie. It’s a sin. But there’s also no way on Earth that I can admit to how I really feel because that’s also a sin, so I blink up at him, red-faced and unsure. “I don’t know. Feverish?”
“Did my guided meditation upset you?”
“No! I just—I tried so hard,” I blubber, wanting desperately to please him. “I may have pushed too hard to connect with God. I—”
“Shh. It’s alright.” He pauses for a long moment, just staring at me.
The space between my legs flutters softly again, so wet that I can almost hear the squelch of it, and I swallow in embarrassment. Can he tell?
“You may be experiencing a panic attack. Some of us do better meditating alone.”
I latch onto his words, nodding fervently. “Yes,” I breathe out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry….”
“There’s no need to apologize.” He turns to dig through his desk, grabbing something—a disk drive—which he hands to me. “I think you should listen to my guided meditations in private. These are new. I’ve been wanting to try them out, and I think you’ll be the perfect candidate for them. Listen to them in your bedroom nightly. You’ll choose a word, a secret word, that you keep all to yourself. It should be something related to how you feel. When the word is said out loud, it should put you into a state of deep relaxation. Would you be willing to try that for me?”
“Of course, sir.”
I’m so happy that he’s not suspicious or angry with me that I’m buzzing with relief. Pastor Alistair doesn’t seem to think I’m a worthless slut—and with as much as I feel like one right now, I’m willing to do whatever I need to do to get over this affliction, to prove myself to the church, to him. I squeeze the disk drive in my trembling hand, offering him a watery smile, and then I whisper, “Thank you.”
Alone in my room, I listen to the new meditation tape, sitting cross-legged on my bed.
“You are valued,” Pastor Alistair’s voice starts, making tears spring to my eyes. “You are good.”
Oh, how desperately I want to prove myself! And for that to be true….
“You are pure.”
“Yes, I am,” I whisper, squeezing my slender legs together and ignoring the brief pulse of pleasure.
I am good and pure; I’m a virgin. I’ve never even kissed a boy! Whatever happened yesterday, in church, was an awful fluke….
“You are valued because you are pure.”
A niggling worry tries to flash through me, but I stuff it down, honing in on the deep sound of his voice, and the weird white noise that begins to fill my ears through the headphones.
“You are a good girl,” his voice drones on. “A chaste girl.”
Humming vibrations start in my brain and run down to my toes, and my mind goes numb, getting lost in the methodic way he speaks, drifting away with the rushing noise—it’s almost like a waterfall, cool and crisp and calming, washing away my anxiety, washing away my thoughts, and washing my sense of self away with the current.
“Good girls are chaste. Good girls are pure.”
Why do I feel so dreamy? Like I’m floating? Delicious tingles make my perky breasts and pussy ache, but I don’t realize it, completely blanked out as the pastor’s voice turns into rushing water, too, everything inside me swirling down, down, down….
“How do you feel?” I hear sometime later. “Focus on this feeling….”
I’m vibrating, a half-thought tells me. It’s a good vibration….
A pure one. I’m pure. I’m good. I vaguely hear the command to choose a word, to think that word over and over again. It’s a secret word. A word that will make me continue to be chaste and pure. Endlessly devoted to my mission.
“Choose wisely. What do you feel when you are close to God?”
Vibration, I can’t help but think, shivering as my pussy flutters, my clit thrumming with energy. It’s okay, because my body belongs to the Lord. He chooses this for me . . . I am just his vessel….
“Vibration, vibration,” Alistair seems to repeat over and over again in his commanding, deep tone, although I don’t know if I’m just imagining it—if it’s really my own internal voice, demonic and morphed into something dark and seductive. “Vibration….”
I get lost in the mantra, lost in the long rush of the word, my entire being thrumming and heavy, anchored down deep in a dark, endless ocean.
A wet, vibrating ocean. I’m soaking my panties. There’s pressure down there. Warm fingers. My fingers….
I don’t know what I’m doing, strumming my clit as the word hums all through me: vibration.
“Jodie?”
I snap out of the mindlessness, my eyes bulging from my head as I see my confused brother standing in my bedroom doorway; the door is now wide open, and Phillip’s white knuckles are gripping the doorknob, his jaw hanging down in surprise.
He blinks at me. “What’re you doing?”
I rip my hand out of my underwear, suddenly aware of the sticky wetness coating my palm, my fingers. The headphones fall around my trembling shoulders. “N-nothing!”
My face burns as he gives me a suspiciously knowing look. It takes everything in me not to wipe my wet hand on the blanket beside me. My fingers feel gross.
(I feel gross.)
Phillip grunts, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “Uh, I’ve been calling you for dinner. I ordered a pizza.”
I stammer something, pulling my knees into my chest. His blue eyes burn into mine. For a terrifying moment, I think I see heated interest in them, like he kinda likes what he sees (my pink, aroused face, my disheveled clothes, the strands of blonde hair sticking to my neck, my nipples poking out of my t-shirt), but then he nods and starts to close the door with a simple, “Come eat.”
Did my older brother just catch me touching myself? What the flying fuck? I cringe at my internal curse words and shiver at the fact that I was just masturbating—not just imagining, or squeezing my thighs together, but full-on rubbing myself—which I’ve never done before. I’m a good girl! A pure girl! Why did Phillip have to walk in on me doing such a terrible thing?
I’m so stunned that I can’t even cry, tossing the headphones away from me in blank shock.
I’ll never listen to that again, I tell myself. Something’s deeply wrong with me!
I know it’s probably not Pastor Alistair’s fault, but I’m not sure, and there’s no way I can talk to my brother about it—or even bring up the church in general. Phillip isn’t religious. He thinks God is a joke, but I’ve always been glad he lets me live my life the way I choose—since our parents abandoned us long ago, and he’s been the one who’s raised me for the last ten years, all on his own (giving up his young adulthood so that I could reach mine).
I can smell my own musky arousal, buttery and sharp, wafting from my hand, and from between my wet thighs.
There’s no way in hell I can admit to Pastor Alistair what his guided meditation did to me, I realize numbly. I have to lie….
And I have to lie to Phillip, too; I have to somehow explain my way out of this.
Good girls don’t lie, my brain blares. Good girls are truthful!
“Not this time,” I whisper to myself, but only because I know this isn’t me—and I’ll be damned if I don’t fake it until I make it, even though I know my goodness really isn’t fake at all.
Right?
I button up my jeans, not knowing how they became unbuttoned in the first place. I’ll pretend that I’ve listened to the guided meditation and that it worked well for me, to Pastor Alistair, I decide wildly, and I’ll pretend that Phillip didn’t see anything, that it wasn’t what it looked like (even though everyone always says that, and it always sounds so lame and flimsy). I’ll show my proud face at church, as usual, and I’ll stand tall, knowing that this is all some great misunderstanding.
I’m not a slut, I’m NOT, my mind insists as I make my way out of my room to join my brother for dinner. This is all just one anxiety nightmare….
Phillip doesn’t bring it up, and so I don’t have to correct him or pretend anything, living out the next week normally, being chaste and pure and diligent—cleaning and cooking and smiling brightly, and overall, just being a helpful little sister.
I go to church as normal, on Wednesday evening and Sunday morning, only skipping the guided meditation afterward, since Pastor Alistair doesn’t expect me to attend them anymore. I try my best to act as though everything is perfectly fine. It’s hard though when Ashley and Madison corner me after church and ask questions I have to smile away, lying through my clenched teeth.
“Ladies, stop harassing Miss Evergreen.”
I startle when the pastor’s shadow falls over me, his voice nearly tickling the back of my neck.
“Jodie, why don’t you go wait in my office while I speak with Miss Winters and Miss Berkley….”
“Yes, sir.”
Anxiety swells thickly in my throat. Is he going to ask me a bunch of questions now, too? I’ve been doing so well playing the prim and proper role that it almost doesn’t feel like an act (because it’s NOT, my exhausted mind insists), but I’m not sure if I can keep it up if Pastor Alistair pressures me too hard.
The TV is on in his office, playing the news of illness and misfortune in other countries, and how missionaries are helping out in Africa, where a cataclysmic earthquake just leveled some coastal cities. I watch with sadness as I see injured people being dug out of the rubble, suddenly distracted from my own predicament.
“It’s all very unfortunate,” the newscaster explains. “The subsequent tsunami was caused by the intense vibration—”
My mind blanks out. A rushing sensation swirls all through me, making my blood hum. Everything’s so warm. So wet. Vaguely, I hear a call for donations to help out a good cause. I’m good. I’m pure. I don’t realize that I’m digging through my purse, looking for my phone. I take it out and call the number on the screen. Good girls are helpful. It’s an automated line that takes my credit card information, and after I finish a deep voice tells me, “Thank you for helping!”
I moan, delicious tingles of pleasure shooting from my nipples to my pussy. I’m such a good, pure girl, I think mindlessly, my eyes stuck on the TV as I sink deeper into my seat on the sofa. My delicate hands massage my breasts through my conservative, floral dress. I’m so helpful. Good girls deserve to feel good, I know, and God, touching myself feels so good.
I don’t even realize when Pastor Alistair walks into his office, watching me with wide eyes as I start to lift the hem of the dress up my stockinged legs. He looks from me to the TV, and it’s only when I slide my hand into my wet panties that he exclaims, “Jodie!”
I jolt upright, the harsh sting of reality smacking me like a whip. Oh my God, my mind screams, not this again! My fingers are wet and sticky. Pastor Alistair is staring at me. Why was I masturbating again? I wasn’t even doing any guided meditation!
“Something’s wrong with me,” I choke out, heat flushing me from head to toe. “I think I’m possessed.”
I’m startled when Pastor Alistair has the nerve to laugh, my blue eyes snapping to his dark ones.
“It’s not funny!”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But let’s take a step back for a moment. You’re clearly having urges—uncontrollable ones—if my eyes don’t deceive me . . . and I’m going to make an educated guess that these urges started sometime during my sermons?”
“The guided meditation,” I admit.
“Even the private ones?”
I nod, squirming uncomfortably as I itch to wipe my fingers on my dress . . . or the pastor’s pristine sofa. Instead, I curl my hand into a fist.
“Did you choose a word that resonates with you, Miss Evergreen? One that personifies your relationship with God?”
I blink back tears, my embarrassment turning into extreme guilt. “I think I chose wrong,” I choke out. “I made a bad mistake….”
“Shh, hush.” Pastor Alistair sits next to me, patting my knee. I wince as a jolt of pleasure zings up to my wet pussy from the warmth of his touch. “Which word did you choose?”
I blink at him, confused. What word did I choose? There’s a blank space in my memory where the word should be, although I can remember the feeling. The rush. The thrumming. The shivery giddiness and the hum of adrenaline in my head, in my chest, in my pussy….
“I—I don’t remember.”
He pats my knee again, frowning. “That’s unfortunate. If you remember, I have some desensitization tapes for you to listen to . . . but until then, I’m going to have to ask that you take a prolonged leave from the church. You will be fully excommunicated if you speak a word about this to anyone.”
I look at him in horror, the shift of his kind warmth to icy indifference making me feel small and worthless.
“I’m not lying,” I choke out. “I really don’t remember.”
“I believe you, although it doesn’t change anything. Leave my church at once and I’ll make the necessary excuses for your absence. Cross me and I’ll run you out of town. My patented methods will make a lot of money for the church, Miss Evergreen, and they’ll also do a lot of good for normal girls across the state, hell, across the country! We can’t have a forgetful little tramp mucking that up, you see….”
He escorts me out the back way, his grip harsh on my arm as he drags my sobbing frame and leaves me in the alleyway like a used-up whore. I can’t believe this is happening to me. It’s hard to drive home through my tears, my mind replaying the horrible event over and over again in my head, trying to remember exactly what played on the TV that led to my banishment.
Something about an earthquake in Africa. Didn’t I donate to a good cause? I can’t quite remember, but I’m determined to re-watch the newscast on my computer when I get home. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this.
Phillip wants to know why my face is all red and tear-streaked when I get home early from church, and I find it hard not to break down blubbering again, leaking out parts of the truth.
“I’m being shunned! Pastor Alistair doesn’t think I’m fit to be part of the congregation anymore.”
“Well, then he’s an idiot.” Phillip pulls me into a tight hug, petting my shoulder-length hair. “You’re the prissiest girl I know . . . I’ve never even heard you say so much as ‘heck’!”
I choke on a bitter laugh. “Thanks.”
His muscular arms around me feel good. Too good. I pull away, confused, and blink at the floor. Why is my pussy still wet even though I feel so miserable? Shouldn’t I be as dry as the desert right now? Especially after my own brother just hugged me?
If anything, I feel wetter.
“I need to do some research on missionaries,” I tell him, my cheeks burning. “I’ll make lunch after, okay?”
His expression hardens. “You aren’t thinking of going on some dumb trip, are you?”
“No. I promise.”
I don’t have to say ‘I’d never leave you’, because we both already know that, not after everything that he’s done for me. I’ll definitely live with my brother until a nice gentleman asks him for my hand and Phillip accepts the proposal for me—because I’m a good and proper girl, and that’s how it’s supposed to be done.
Searching for the newscast doesn’t take much time, but I hesitate to watch it when I find it, sitting on my bed in my dress and low-heeled pumps, just staring at the laptop screen. Maybe I shouldn’t watch it. Maybe it’ll do something to me again. Maybe Phillip will even find me naked and stuffing my fingers up my pussy like a deviant slut….
“That’s ridiculous,” I tell myself, slowly removing my shoes.
It’s possible that the newscast had nothing to do with my predicament, after all. Maybe it was Alistair’s office! Who knows if his aura or voice lingers there somehow?
“That’s crazy,” I whisper.
I fan my suddenly sweaty face, and then take off my white pantyhose, cringing as the flimsy fabric sticks to my wet panties. A shower would probably do me good. I can smell the heated musk of myself, and I hate to admit that it smells kind of good—kind of . . . sexy….
Shut up, I hiss internally, cringing.
Maybe I’ll watch the newscast on my phone while I’m taking a shower. That somehow seems safer than lying on my bed, and it’ll be normal to lock the bathroom door, whereas I almost never lock my bedroom door (because I have nothing to hide).
I grab a modest pair of jean shorts and a blue t-shirt that brings out the color of my eyes, along with a plain white bra and matching cotton panties, and then I head into the bathroom. Normally, I don’t look at my nude body in the mirror, but I can’t help myself after I’ve stripped off my dress and sodden underthings.
A pretty, heart-shaped face stares back at me, my big, blue eyes making me look a youthful eighteen. My breasts are more womanly than my face, although not huge, but still rounded and full, looking nice on my petite frame. I stare at my flat tummy, my eyes slowly drifting down to the traitorous spot between my legs. There’s a thatch of soft blonde hair there, but I can see the delicate pinkness of my clit poking out, and the plumpness of my lower lips. Wet. Sticky. Glistening….
“Gross,” I mutter, turning my eyes away as a spike of pleasure makes my head sway.
Why would I find myself arousing? That’s just weird.
Maybe it’s just hormones though, I convince myself as I step into the steamy shower and relish in the hot spray of water. I’m supposed to get married and reproduce. That’s God’s function for me after all. But usually young women wait a few years until they aren’t teenagers anymore. Even though we live in Texas, where teen mothers are at an all-time high, the Holy Faith Church prefers that young women abstain until their early twenties, which I have every intention of doing, because I’m prim and proper and will marry appropriately when the time comes.
My cellphone is waterproof, so I set it up to play on the little shower caddy, while I scrub myself with luxurious, sweet-scented body wash. My stomach does a flip-flop when the newscast starts. Should I really be listening to this again? Maybe this is a big mistake….
I hum a little tune to myself as the newscaster explains the horror that unfolded—earthquakes and tsunamis—in Africa. I don’t even realize when the newscaster makes the comment about the earth’s vibration, so lost as I am in trying to calm myself by soaping up my teen tits….
There’s no thought of being cognizant versus being not. My mind goes in an instant; a warmth thrums inside my brain, blanking out and making me shiver. The hot spray of water and my hands on my breasts feel deliciously wonderful. I rub the soap in harder, moaning as pleasure ripples all through me.
I’m such a good, pure girl. I’m so virginal and sexy. My body is so tight and fit, just made for breeding. I roll my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, moaning louder as the pleasure spikes higher. Everything feels so warm and wet and good. My body is made for pleasure. I’m God’s vessel—to be mounted and stuffed with hot, life-giving sperm.
I don’t even realize it as one hand dips down to shove soapy fingers up my dripping wet pussy. I need to be clean and pure everywhere. It’s so tight inside me. So warm and squeezing. I can barely fit two fingers up my virgin channel, moaning louder and not hearing the request for donations that the newscaster asks for.
I shouldn’t hide such a beautiful, fertile body from the world. I should show it off. I should make someone want to marry me—to breed me. I moan louder and louder as I finger myself, the sloppy, wet noises filling my ears as I begin to fuck myself with wanton abandon. There’s a loud pounding on the door, but I don’t hear it, my mind one long tunnel of bliss, my fingers working in and out of me.
“Are you okay?”
Vaguely my mind registers the sound, but not the meaning. I’m so horny that I can’t stop, won’t stop, humping my hand and crying out as my orgasm builds and builds. I’m so wet and tight and pure, my tight, teen cunt spasming around my fingers as my older brother bursts into the bathroom, his eyes wild with concern.
“Jodie?”
I snap into reality just as I climax, my moan broken as I stare into his shocked eyes through the clear glass of the shower, hiding nothing about what I’m doing.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, making me shudder helplessly, my face flushing bright.
“It’s not,” I choke out, but I don’t know how to finish the lie, because it obviously is—and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, other than I feel so good right now I can still hardly think, can hardly breathe.
I don’t realize that the newscast ends. Or that it automatically starts up again due to the video loop.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles, staring at my soapy tits, at the way the bubbles slide down my sexy, little body. “We all have urges….”
I shiver at the fire in his eyes. Is my brother really looking at me like I’m to be lusted after? It’s so wrong, yet with the humming buzz still tingling in my pussy, it feels exotic and sexy, my fingers slowly pulling out of my teen tightness, squelching as they pull free.
“Jodie, are you okay?”
If he’d said my name a moment later, I wouldn’t fall under like I do when the newscaster states how unfortunate it was that the subsequent tsunami was caused by the intense vibration of the Earth’s tectonic plates….
My mind goes blank, my wet body lurching out of the shower towards him as he stares at me. I moan and finger myself sluttily, falling into his arms, my pussy clenching around my greedy fingers. I need someone to cum in me. I need to prove that I’m pure and fertile and breedable….
“Are you okay?” he asks me desperately. “You’re making me . . . uh….”
I moan as he squeezes me against him, the outline of his erection pressing into my side.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, trying to push me away, but I don’t let him, fingering myself harder and moaning up into his stunned face.
“I’m so horny,” I whimper, pressing my wet tits into his chest and mewling. “Please help me….”
He freezes as I slide down his body, groaning as I start to kiss his hard cock through the rough denim of his jeans.
I’m such a good girl, on my knees and worshipping. So pure. So close to God. I don’t even realize that somehow my mind is all mixed up and short-circuiting, or that I should never (in a million years) be taking my older brother’s cock out, or that prayer isn’t done like this, with my tongue darting out to lick away the dribbling precum from his cockhead.
“Jo—” he starts, but then he groans, his grip hard on my shoulders as I suck him in—like I know what I’m doing, like my mouth was always made for this. “Jesus….”
I finger my tight, teen cunt, two fingers now easily spreading me open with how aroused I am, listening to my older brother’s ragged breathing, something deep inside me knowing that I’m making him feel just the same way I’m feeling. So good. So deliriously horny. Aching for release—aching for blissful salvation.
This is my purpose, to worship on my knees. I’m such a good girl.
“Stop,” he hisses, lurching backwards just as he ejaculates, his cock spraying hot, fat jets of cum across my face, my neck, my bouncing tits.
I blink up mindlessly at him, watching his mouth gape, his eyes glazing over, and a powerful rush expands inside me, orgasm ripping through me like a bullet as I hear my brother gasp, “Fuck….”
“Fuck,” he repeats after he’s finished decorating my slender body with white trails of his sperm; he looks down at me in horror, shaking his head. “I’m so fucking sorry. You weren’t supposed to do that to me, Jodie—”
It’s like being doused in icy water. My mind zaps back, my heated expression morphing into pained confusion as I listen to my brother curse and watch him shove something back into his boxers, hastily doing up his jeans.
Was that his penis?
And why am I kneeling on the floor? Why am I naked?
I hear the bathroom door slam and I look up in shock, finding that Phillip has dashed out and left me, sticky and wet, my knees aching on the tiled floor.
“Oh my God, what have I done?” I touch the wet, slimy stuff that’s dripping down my face, my breasts. “What is this?”
But I know what it is, I think, the primal, sharp smell of it lancing into my brain. My older brother was just in here with me, with his pants down, and my insides are sore like I’ve been touching myself. I swallow, realizing my mouth tastes weird . . . and it’s kind of sore. Did I put my brother’s dick in my mouth?
Tears well up as I think about what I must have done to get Phillip to molest me in such a way.
I’m a monster—a horrible, slutty, devil woman!
I’m just about to sob myself into a puddle on the floor when I hear the newscaster on my phone explain why the tsunami hit Africa’s coastal line, and my brain vibrates, all my guilty thoughts blanking out….
I’m on my knees. Right where I’m supposed to be.