Carrie's POV
TWO WEEKS LATER
He has me bent over the altar after midnight Mass, habit shoved to my waist, and the only prayer leaving my mouth is his name when he tells me to count every stroke or start over.
The chapel is dark except for the single sanctuary lamp. My cheek presses against cold marble. My wrists are bound behind my back with the white cincture that once marked my vow of chastity.
Father Marcus stands between my spread thighs, one hand firm on the small of my back, the other already delivering the next sharp slap across my bare ass.
“Louder, Carrie .”
“Four,” I gasp.
The leather strap he took from the discipline drawer lands again. Heat blooms. Tears sting my eyes but I do not ask him to stop. I have not asked him to stop since the night of his study two weeks ago
