Her Priest (Divine Domination Book 1) Read online

  “Those were for your outright defiance and disobedience. I still owe you a good old-fashioned hand spanking for breaking curfew when you were sick. Besides, those few lashes aren’t going to last. You need a longer spanking to make an impression.”

  “But…I don’t want another spanking.”

  “And who did you give permission to spank you—to punish you when you deserve it?”

  “I gave you permission, Sir. But, Emerson—”

  “Is that who I am to you?”

  “No, Father.” Her Priest. “I…but…my bottom still hurts. A lot.” She pulled her lip between her teeth. She had given him permission. Consented to his dominance, just like she had in college. She craved the authority he willingly gave her.

  She loved their dynamic. Liked that, he was in charge, but she knew if she said it had gone too far, he’d stop in a heartbeat. It was part of their agreement. Part of what made this so delicious.

  He pushed her—past her limits many days. Beyond what she thought she could handle. And when tomorrow would come, she’d tell him with one hundred percent assuredness that she loved his ability to know what she needed before she had a clue. That he knew she’d want the ache and marks on her white ass, something to run her finger along while staring in the mirror at them the next day. The marks of her lover—her disciplinarian—her priest. The marks of his protection, his possessiveness, and the marks of his concern.

  Most days, they played with implements and bondage just because. And that’s how she craved it. She didn’t want discipline as the focal part of their relationship. She wanted to feel his dominance at all times—not just when she broke a rule.

  Rules were in place for her safety, of course. But more than that, rules were in place to re-establish the dynamic, giving him the ability to prove time and time again that he was in charge, and that he controlled her emotions, pain, and ecstasy. He controlled how much pain she would deal with on any given day, and if she broke a rule, it gave him an excuse to push her past those limits—pushing her to a level of pain and tears she didn’t want.

  He knew that his role as a priest intermingled in her mind with his authority and dominance, and she loved that about him. He was someone she confessed to, and he gave her a penance making her atone for her sins, demanding compliance to his edicts and they were not something she could manipulate with tears or begging.

  A confessor accepted, without reservation, a priest’s mercy and penance for sins committed. Punishment was something submitted to and carried out whether there was agreement or not, whether there were tears of remorse or not, and obedience was expected at all times. A priest was in charge. His role as punisher and executioner didn’t diminish his loving kindness. It only increased him in the eyes of the subject. A subject confessed and he helped them atone, bringing them back into the fold with true forgiveness.

  The priest’s authority only brought submission to the forefront, melding the roles of each party in the process.

  “Over my lap, girl.”

  It was that voice again. The one that didn’t tolerate whining or complaining. The one that made her belly flip with nerves.

  She gently lay over his lap, her body resting upon the bed, and she clenched the bedspread between her fists.

  But, anticipating a struggle, he pulled her right hand down to her hip, holding it tightly, tucking her into his side. And then, the kiss of death in her mind, his hairy leg covered her calves, meaning it would be difficult to maintain composure in this session.

  “Oh God. Is it going to be that bad?” She heard the whine in her voice and hated it. She didn’t like being weak or showing fear, even to him.

  “Let’s discuss this.” His hand lightly stroked her still burning flesh. “How would you react if I was sick and you’d been taking care of me for a week, and then I suddenly decided I was better and…let’s say I went out in the cold rain without a coat. How would you feel? Honestly?”

  She hated when he did this, when he made her see it turned around. It sealed her fate, assuring that her ass was toast. She drummed her toes on the floor.

  Damn him!

  “Answer me without a fit of temper, or this discussion ends now.”

  “I’d be upset, okay?” She looked over her shoulder at him, not feeling overly submissive at the moment. “It would feel like I’d worked and cared for a long time to make sure you were fine, and then you just threw it away risking another cold by not taking care of yourself.” She growled, hitting the bed with her hand, mumbling quietly. “God, I hate when you do this.”

  “Say that again.” He pinched her right buttock in warning.

  “I said I hate when you do this.”

  He patted her bottom lightly. “Do what? Reason with you logically? Help you see what you did from a perspective that’s not your own? Like that? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes!” She glared at him, feeling angrier by the minute.

  “I’d watch that tone, little girl, or you’re going to be biting off more than you can chew.” He rubbed her backside, letting her quietly reflect. “List the things I did for you last week while you were sick.”

  Welp! Here are the nails for the coffin.

  She exhaled dramatically. “You came to my apartment and made me chicken soup, Jell-o, and pudding. You brought me special lotion tissues and my favorite magazines.” She traced the swirling pattern in the bedspread with her finger, the tingle in her nose a precursor to her tears. “You watched a marathon of Sister Wives on television with me, checked my temperature, and brushed my hair until I fell asleep.” Her voice broke into a sob on the last one. She loved when he brushed her hair; it calmed her and made her feel cherished.

  His smooth silky-skinned hand slid up her spine. “It felt like you were disregarding all of that when you came home late last night, tossing your health to the wayside.”

  “I’m sorry. I appreciate it all, I really do. You know that, right?” He blurred in her teary gaze, but he gave her a warm smile, nodding his head.

  “Yes, I do, and I was glad to do it all too. Well…maybe not the Sister Wives marathon, but you know what I mean.”

  She laughed, the tears falling and tracking down her cheeks. He’d been mostly silent during the back-to-back shows, but every once in a while, he’d sigh loudly at a comment, or groan when it was too corny in his mind. Then, he’d loudly announce that he had to check on the scores for some games and disappear for a few minutes.

  But he did it all for her.

  “I think we’re ready to punish this little red ass for its carelessness. Am I right?” He patted her bottom in preparation, waiting for her agreement.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How do we begin?”

  She pulled in a shaky breath, her clit throbbing.

  Jesus, I love him.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Yes you have, my child.”

  Cool air brushed over her bottom when he lifted his hand, his hard palm crashing against her inflamed flesh, the sting even more unbearable than normal. She wondered again at how a hand with such soft skin and long thin fingers could hurt so much. It didn’t take long for her to begin struggling against his arm, her hips bucking, and her toes thrumming against the floor. What started as quiet “ow’s” very quickly became cries of distress, her tears flowing easily this time.

  “You’ll take a nap today for your foolishness. I expect you in flannel jammies, socks on your feet at all times, and obeying my orders for the rest of the weekend. Are we clear?” His hand marched up and down her bottom and thighs in what seemed like an unending spanking.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “No phone, no internet, and no television today. And no complaining either.” Each word was punctuated with a vicious slap to her thighs.

  She screeched loudly into the bed, more than ready for it to end, and she would’ve agreed to any declaration made from this man just to have it end.

  Blessedly, he stopped. He stroked her bottom,
running his fingers lightly over her back as well, cooing with nonsensical words to soothe her. “You’re such a good girl. You’ll have a good nap while I cook dinner and then we can cuddle all evening. You’re my good girl again.”

  The cries stopped as soon as his hand relented, but the tears and hiccups continued, abating quickly with his care. She loved this man, loved his care and concern for her. No one had ever loved her as much as Emerson, and he’d been returned to her. And even though she’d forgotten how to submit to the level he wanted and desired, he never grew weary of training and guiding her. His concern seemed never-ending, and her desire to please him was almost the same. But she let her pride and need for independence override what she desired. She desired his control and his dominance, but her need to show the world—and herself—that she could care for herself without a man hindered her on many days.

  If she had been able to tell Anna, “No I need to be home early tonight; Emerson has taken care of me all week and I don’t want to hurt his feelings by being out late,” she wouldn’t be lying with a red bottom and sobbing into a bedspread. Instead, she would probably be bike riding around Amsterdam enjoying a beautiful spring day.

  She groaned at her stupidity, her thoughtlessness and inane desire to please others. It’s what made her a good submissive (most days). The desire to please, putting other’s needs before her own, and despising the thought of letting anyone down were what made her a good partner. And, although she didn’t always succeed, she wanted to delight Emerson.

  “What was that groan for, baby?”

  He curled her into his chest, spooning beside her. He pulled her hair from her face, combing it with his fingers.

  “I let you down. I try to be a good submissive, but I was worried about what Anna would say if I told her that you wanted me home by a certain time, and so instead of being outside enjoying today, I got spanked and disappointed you in the process.” She started crying anew.

  “Hey, hey. Calm down. Shhhhh.” He turned her over to face him, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “Listen. Are you listening?”

  She nodded, her lip quivering.

  He stilled the quiver with a finger to her lip. “We all slip. We all make mistakes. Even me. I know, it’s shocking.” He smiled down at her, winking. “It’s all forgiven now. And besides, we’re in Amsterdam, it rains all the fucking time, chances are good you’d have to come home for a nap because you were all wet.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, laughing. He was so overprotective. Some days she hated it, but most days she loved it. Burying her nose into his chest, she relaxed into him, lying quietly for what seemed like forever.

  Until…

  His cock began nudging her soft belly. Pulling her head up from his chest, she looked down at the purple head pressing into her plump flesh and then looked up at him with a smirk.

  Emerson didn’t even open his eyes. He just mumbled with a sexy baritone. “Ignore him. He’s had a blow job, and you need a nap. He’s just being selfish.”

  “I kinda don’t want to ignore him.” She bit her lip waiting to see what his reaction would be.

  He peeped one eye at her, shaking his head, pulling her back into his chest. “No. You need sleep, and he needs to stop. Now sleep, or else.”

  She mumbled into his soft chest hair. “Meanie.”

  He gave her unbelievably sore ass a sharp, crisp slap. “Sleep!”

  “Ow!” She started to rub the offending spot, only to have him shove her hand aside, rubbing it softly, until she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  He dozed with Chelsea for only a half hour, when, like a stealth ninja, he slipped his arms and legs from her body and climbed quietly out of the bed, covering her slowly so to not wake her as he slipped out of the bedroom.

  Her bottom was still pink with a few darker pink stripes from his belt. She’d actually taken a punishment from his belt—and it turned out to be much more than he’d even anticipated giving her. Her damn impertinence and fighting character trying to grab the belt while in motion. He swore his heart had momentarily stopped, having visions of explaining to the hospital social workers and cops why he’d been beating his girlfriend with a belt. Nothing struck more fear into him than a conversation like that.

  But for all her worry and concern—and his too—she’d actually done very well with a strapping. His fear and wanting to thwart any interference from her ever again had spurred him into giving her more of a thrashing than intended. Her bottom showed the effects too. She’d be sitting on those stripes for a couple days, each dark pink line with purple edges.

  He shook his head. Damn stubborn woman. His woman.

  He never thought the day would come where he’d have her back in his arms again. All those days and nights in college had warmed him in his cold bed in the rectory. Just how many nights had he masturbated to her?

  Too many to count.

  The Catholic Church tried to stay with the current social media trends, so they recommended that each church and priest have their own Facebook page. He’d started one for St. Theodore’s Parish and one for Father Em, which everyone called him but Chelsea.

  In the back of his mind, he had wondered if Chelsea would see it. But then he’d discounted it; she was married and he was just a faint memory to her at this point. He figured she’d never in a million years search his name.

  Little did he know at the time, she’d been searching his name for years, hoping against hope that she could find him and rekindle their love. She’d been unhappily married almost from the beginning—according to her. He remembered one Facebook chat vividly.

  Were you happily married?

  Yes, Sir. I made sure of it.

  Good. Why did you say it like that?

  Because someone had given me a warning in that regard.

  Oh yeah, who?

  Do you really not remember?

  Remember what?

  Oh my God. You told me before you left for the priesthood that I was to marry for love and that you may show up at my wedding, and if you thought I didn’t marry for love, you’d take me out back and blister my ass raw. You said you’d know by looking in my eyes if I was truly in love.

  Oh yeeeeeeah. I remember saying that now. You remembered? And did you?

  Of course I remembered. How do you forget a warning like that? And yes, I did marry David for love. I loved him a lot. I just didn’t realize that everything he did and said was put through the Emerson Filter. I remember the day of our wedding; I kept looking around trying to make sure you weren’t there watching, afraid you’d beat my bottom. And then…almost disappointed that you weren’t there, wishing—just a teeny tiny bit—that you would come to spank the shit out of me and whisk me away.

  I’m sorry, Chels. I got the invitation. I just…I just couldn’t. I loved you too much to watch you with another man…watching you kiss him, and then coming back to my cold priestly twin bed, thinking all night about your wedding night. I couldn’t.

  You never stopped loving me either, did you?

  How could I not love you? You were…and are…my soul, my other half. Look, I have to go, Chelsea. I’ll be back on here tomorrow, but for now, I have to go.

  And that was how he had ended the uncomfortable conversation—the conversation that couldn’t help but occur between two people who loved each other, but the one that should have never occurred with a priest and his ex lover. He was married—to the church—but he wanted to be with her. And she was available.

  It was that night that he had gone to Bill McKenna, the senior priest at the rectory, his mentor and friend. Bill had been in the priesthood for over forty years and knew how to deal with every situation that arose. Emerson had taken a chance that night by knocking on Bill’s office door. They drank shots of whiskey and talked through the night about his situation.

  “I see it like th
is, Emerson. We’re given a gift or talent, something that God uses to benefit others or spread the Gospel, but life gets in the way. Not just for us, but for everyone else. It doesn’t matter what your calling is, what your title is, or if you’re married to the Church or a wife. If it’s not working and you’re not happy any longer, you can push through and struggle with it, finding a modicum of peace, or you can leave, finding where your soul is at peace, where you belong. At the end of the day, my friend, we all need to walk out our faith with fear and trembling, doing what we know is right and just obeying God in all things.”

  Emerson raked his hand through his wavy hair, leaving it disheveled. “But…can I divorce myself from God?”

  “Emerson, Emerson…can any of us really divorce ourselves from our creator? You’ve loved Him since you were a child. He is God, He isn’t worried about any decisions you make. And even if you think you’ve lost Him, we’re talking about the God of the Universe; you can’t hide or run away from Him. And if we’re going to discuss theology here, if your times are predestined before you are born, do you think He’ll be surprised by your decision? Honestly?”

  “What if I make a wrong decision, or I turn the wrong way, Bill?”

  “Again, He’s able to find you, and as a child of the God, He’s more than able to put you on the right path. You won’t be lost.”

  Emerson pulled in a shaky breath, his eyes filling with tears envisioning the Sunday school pictures of The Shepherd climbing the rocks to rescue the one lost sheep.

  It was from that point on that Emerson knew his decision. He’d venture out, leaving the priesthood to cleave to his woman, the girl of his youth, the other half of his soul, and if his God decided he’d gone the wrong way, He’d call Emerson back just as He had brought him into the priesthood—with a dream.

  The whiskey not only clouded Emerson’s vision, but apparently hindered his ability to walk a straight line as he bumped into Bill’s desk before pulling his old friend into his embrace, pounding his back, tears running down his face. “Thank you, Bill. I’ll always be indebted to you.”