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Authors: Marata Eros,Emily Goodwin

One of Many (3 page)

BOOK: One of Many
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Chapter Three

Audrey

 

The room is cold. Nightfall is chilly this early in the summer, and the air-conditioning has been turned on. I get a flash of a class field trip to the art museum in Sioux Falls. Cold air, unwelcome walls surrounding me. I was in seventh grade then, and it feels foreign—wrong—to think about life outside The Community.

Because that’s what I’m told.

My life
before
has been forgiven. I belong here and can repent of my sins. But I wasn’t a sinner before. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was only a girl, crushing on boys, telling secrets to Michelle, my best friend.

Michelle.

And I get another memory flash. I wonder what happened to her, if she went to college as she wished. I wasn’t allowed to tell her where I was going, just that we were moving. I had only two daysʼ notice anyway. It was barely enough time to say goodbye.

What would she think if she saw me now? The other wives are proud to be here, or at least that is how they seem. They’re Chosen, above the rest in a way, yet too humble to gloat. I don’t feel Chosen. I don’t feel special. I don’t see how I’m going to make a difference.

I clasp my hands on my elbows and look around the room. It’s big, and it’s dark. The only light coming in is from the porch lights below. I get up off the bed, my heels softly clicking on the hardwood floor, and go to the window. I look out, seeing the lights of The Community from this angle for the first time.

We’re nestled in a valley, surrounded by thick forests and rough terrain of quartzite boulders on both sides. Father Weston’s big house is up on a knoll, overlooking the tiny homes the rest of the members live in. Each is plain and looks exactly the same. To see one house is to have seen them all.

We enter into a small foyer that connects a laundry room and family room. Beyond that is a combination dining room and kitchen. Down the hall are the bedrooms. Some houses have two. Some have three for bigger families. And there is only one bathroom for everyone to share.

It’s all we need and is more than enough. A roof over our heads, a safe place to eat and sleep…what more can we ask for?

My hands shake as I reach to turn on the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed. My bed. Our bed? Soft yellow light illuminates the room. I let out a shaky breath and look around.

The bed is centered against the wall, with two nightstands on either side. Identical lamps sit on top of them, and not one speck of dust shows on the dark wood. Two large windows are on the wall across from the door, with a tall wardrobe between. The bed is bigger than any I’ve ever slept in, covered with a shiny ivory comforter and matching pillows. Another dresser is across from that, next to a closet door.

Everything is empty. Nothing is decorated. The room feels fake, as if it’s teasing me with an ostentatious facade.

I perch on the edge of the bed. Should I unpack my bag? Change into the short black nightgown I’ve been provided? Before the wedding, one of the wives told me to remove my panties. Father Weston prefers us that way. I shaved for the first time in years and find the sensation of my smooth skin rubbing together as I cross my legs provocative. 

Someone puts their hand on the doorknob, and I jump before turning around and staring at the door with wide eyes. My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat, pounding away, and suddenly terror takes over, and I can’t stop shaking.

I’m in a house with six other people, yet I’ve never felt more alone. I know I can’t trust the other wives. They’ve been here too long, are too loyal to Father Weston. My mind goes to the one person who makes the least sense: Father Weston’s son. He’s called “First Son” and is rarely addressed, rarely spoken to.

But I know his name is Kiev. I’ve heard the whispers about him. I know the rumors. He’s a sinner, cast out only to return. They say Father Weston prayed for his son’s redemption, and it was granted when the man showed up again.

I looked into Kiev’s eyes. Steel-grayish blue like his father’s but
dark
. They are not the eyes of a man redeemed.

And yet I want to go to him.

“Ahh, there you are, my Audrey.” Father Weston opens the door and steps inside. “You are absolutely stunning.”

I blink from the harsh light spilling in from the hall. I open my mouth, but no words come out. What should I say? Thank you? So do you?

I snap my mouth shut and press my sweaty hands on the front of my dress. I want out of it, then I can breathe. But taking it off means only one thing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says and comes into the room before shutting the door behind him and cutting off the bright light. He unbuttons the cuffs of his white shirt as he walks across the room. I stand, facing him, feeling like the executioner is coming for me. My heart is still racing, and I think I might throw up.

He stops in front of me, standing too close. I can feel his breath on my face, and it takes everything I have not to take a step back. He’s my husband now. I can’t let him know he terrifies me.

He knows
.

He knows and he likes it. A smirk pulls up his lips, and he untucks his shirt from his pants.

“Unbutton my shirt.”

I nod and reach up, my hands trembling. I fumble with the buttons but get them all undone. I swallow hard and flick my gaze to his. He’s waiting, expecting me to take his shirt off. I sweep my fingers across his skin and pull back.

“No,” he orders gruffly and snatches my wrist in his hand. He presses it to him, right over his heart. He’s warm and muscular, with just enough hair on his chest. “Have you ever touched a man?”

“N-no.” He knows this. Why is he asking?

“I know you’re a virgin,” he grunts. “But have you ever been touched?”

I shake my head, unable to look into his eyes. My hand is still on his chest, feeling his steady heart beating.

“Have you touched yourself?”

I clench my jaw. I have, but only a few times due to the lack of privacy. For the first two years, we lived with another family. I shared a bed with a girl a year older than me. Showers were my only time alone, and they were timed. I was never allowed more than ten minutes.

I turn my head side to side again.

“You’re going to touch yourself tonight. And I’m going to watch.” He grabs my chin and makes me look at him. “Turn around.”

I close my eyes and spin, my feet aching in the heels. I focus on the pain and pretend I’m at home with my parents, where it’s safe. With deft hands, Father Weston unlaces the corset that’s holding my breasts hostage. The relief I feel as it loosens is replaced with fear. Fear of being touched, by him and myself. Not while he’s watching.

Slowly, he pulls each lace out one by one, until the dress is loose enough to fall around my feet in a puddle of satin and ribbon. I’m not wearing a bra.

Father Weston lets out a groan and steps close behind me. I bring my arms up, covering my exposed breasts.

“No,” he says again and takes my hands, putting them at my side. I’m shaking from head to toe, and goose bumps break out on my skin. A warm hand finds the small of my back, then runs down and over my bare ass.

His fingers slip in between my legs, and I tense.

“Relax,” he whispers in my ears. “Now get on the bed.”

I carefully step out of the dress, my heels getting caught in the material. I look at the floor, feeling so exposed. I sit on the bed. Father Weston pushes me down. He kneels over me.

“Unbuckle my belt.”

The leather is stiff and new. I can feel his cock, hard and wet at the tip, pressing against his pants. I’ve never felt a cock before. Hell, I’ve never seen a cock before.

I’m scared. I don’t know what to expect. I’m almost twenty and have been kept in the dark about this. How am I supposed to be a good wife and please my husband when I don’t really know what things look like?

“Now take off my pants.”

I clamp my jaw shut and force myself to take slow breaths. I unlatch his pants and pull the zipper down. The top of his dick is sticking out through the opening of his boxers. I take a second to stare at it, study it, get familiar with it so I’m not afraid. Because I know I’ll be touching it in one way or another soon.

“You’ve never seen a cock before.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He knows I’m inexperienced. I’ve seen things in movies, seen things on the Internet before I came here. I have a general idea of what happens, but doing it firsthand scares me.

“No.”

He pulls his pants down, fully exposing himself. “Take a hold.”

I reach up and wrap my fingers around his shaft. It’s hard and warm. He puts his hand over mine and moves it up and down, up and down, breathing faster with each pump. He rocks back, pulling himself out of my hand.

“Now touch yourself.”

My fingers are sticky and wet with precum. I put my hand between my legs, wiping the wetness on my thigh. This is wrong. I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to be in bed with Father Weston.

“Look at me,” he commands. I lift my head off the pillows and see him near the foot of the bed, his hand on his cock, pumping it up and down. “Keep touching yourself.”

I move my fingers around, taking the time to explore my body.

“You know you’re special, Audrey,” he starts. “You’re Chosen, and you’re different than the others. The end is on the horizon and—” He cuts off, hunching forward with a moan. “And you will save everyone.”

I want to ask how the hell I’m supposed to do that. How is lying in the bed in this cold room saving anyone? I bend my knees, pretending I’m enjoying what I’m doing.

“I’ve been told,” he pants, “through dreams… dreams… you’re to be saved until The Reckoning.”

“When is that?” I blurt. Does that mean I’m safe until then? Wait, no, I’m not safe now.

“Whenever I say it is,” he grumbles and pitches forward, his body trembling as he comes. He pumps his hand and holds himself over me, spilling his seed onto my breasts and stomach. I close my eyes and look away.

He is my husband now. Look at him.

Luckily his eyes are shut. He hasn’t seen my abhorrence, hasn’t seen my disobedience.
Follow the rules
. Pleasing him is a rule. It doesn’t have to be said for me to know that.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, still gingerly stroking his cock. He leans back, and I watch his shaft start to soften in his hands. His eyes focus on my mouth, and I know what’s to come next.

Suddenly, a crash sounds outside the door, followed by a deep voice calling, “Oh, Father!” almost as though he’s teasing, taunting, knowing he’s interrupting.

Kiev.

Father Weston sighs, and rage takes over his face, something I’ve never seen before. He’s always smiling, warm, and welcoming in The Community. I lie perfectly still as he gets dressed, then leaves the room, not closing the door behind him.

I’m naked on the bed, exposed for anyone walking down the hall to see. I slowly sit up and look at the shiny liquid that covers my body. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I have no idea what to do.

Minutes tick by, and Father Weston hasn’t returned. On trembling legs, I get up, close the bedroom door, and go into the small bathroom. I avoid the mirror. Not wanting to look at myself, not wanting to see what I have become.

I turn on the water to the shower and take off my heels. I get in before the water is warm, getting shocked by an icy blast. I wash myself, and when my hand slips between my legs, I feel a rush of warmth flow through my body.

I’m not thinking of Father Weston. I’m thinking of Kiev.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

Chapter Four

Kiev

 

I can't stay silent.

Father Weston disappears behind the glowing antique wooden door, sealing Audrey's fate.

But fate can be manipulated—changed. Isn't that one of the words Father uses in his eloquent sermons?

Be malleable to the word of God.

What a load of horseshit. It's more like “be open to my commands.”

In this case, it's him tapping whatever young girl he wants to sample.

What is it about
this
girl that gives me pause? Makes me want to progress my plan? I've fucked a hundred chicks if I've fucked one.

Why her? Why now?

I clench my fists. Unclench. I feel my jaw slide back and forth with indecision. I can be complacent. I have the ability.

God knows, that's my modus operandi. Apathy has been the key to my survival when I was in The Community.

I blend right in outside. In fact, I'd say I'm a natural fit within the decadence that The Community believes is beyond its borders.

But what Father Weston has going on here is far more decadent that the blatant shit of outside.

He breeds an insidious perversity.

His own.

I close my eyes, imagining Audrey in there getting her sweet cherry popped by dear old dad.

I've moved forward before I can stop myself.

My mind's eye fills with the vision of her in that white dress, a rack shoved up high and tight that makes my mouth water. I'd love to get my hands on her body. Hell, my dick is a satellite coming to orbit, sniffing out her sweet cunt like a homing device.

But her eyes stop me.

Make me fucking tender.

I hate it.

The last ounce of compassion was used up when my mom left. That was the last woman I felt something for.

I want to sex this Chosen up.

And that's exactly what I'll do.

It doesn't matter that she looked terrified before she entered that bedroom.

That she's innocent and was probably too young to think independently.

I want to hurt Weston where it counts—right in the balls.

I move forward. The plan is firmly in my mind, and I smile, knowing the case of blue nuts I'm going to deliver.

Courtesy of my interruption.

 

*

 

I press my ear to the door. I know the other wives are deep inside their rooms. They know the rules. I'm unobserved.

Not that I give two shits.

Father Weston is presumably stuffing his cock in a new hole. The wives know to stay away.

I hear a muffled groan, and at once I think I'm too late.
What did he do, pound himself dry inside her?

Panic seizes me. “Oh, Father!” I say loudly and use my fist to bang on the door.

There's a soft curse and a rustle of clothing.

Father Weston jerks open the door.

My fist is raised for a second round.

If I'd had proper momentum, I might have beaten him. As he did me when I didn't do as I should.

Which was often.

He gives my raised hand a significant glance.

I don't drop my hand because of a look from my fucked-up dad. It drops in shock.

Audrey lies on the bed, frantically trying to adjust herself from my line of sight.

Too late.

Her pussy is open and pink, glistening with wetness.

Arousal?

Cum covers her from the top of her mound to the giant valley between her tits.

My mouth goes dry.

She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.

It's only a glimpse—seconds. But I want more.

I try to push past Weston, but he grabs my arm, shutting the door and the view of Audrey away.

My eyes slit to razors of hate.

“What are you doing, interrupting my time with my Chosen?” His grip is a vise.

I jerk my arm out of the painful hold.

“I thought I heard something. Something not consensual.”

A lie, but an effective one. I wanted to throw a bucket of cold water on their time.

His frown is a grim ripple of flesh between his dark eyebrows. “You heard me pleasuring my Chosen, Kiev.” His smile is smug.

“That's not what it sounded like. You into rape now, Father?” I ask in a tone laced by venom accusation.

“No,” he replies emphatically. His chin kicks up in haughty denial.

He stabs a finger in my chest, and I capture it. “She is my Chosen, Kiev. You are not to interfere.”

I shove him in his chest, noting his pants are undone, a shadow of moisture covering the crotch of his dark slacks.

Prick.

He shoves back, reentering the battle zone.

“I know what you're doing here, Father.”

His inky eyebrows rise, and our chests are almost touching.

“Oh? You're omniscient now? You know my thoughts—as though you were God?” The corners of his lips turn up.

I wanna wipe the expression off his face with my fist. Instead I say, “I'm not the one who thinks he’s God.”

He reaches behind him, feeling for the solid brass door handle.

He's going to finish what he couldn't with Audrey.

Adrenaline surges. I need to fuck this up.

Fuck him up.
I pull out the ace card from my deck of scheming.

“This discussion is over,” Weston says, turning away from me.

Dismissing me. Again.

He won't dismiss me now.

Weston doesn't wait for my reply. He begins to turn the softly glowing brass handle.

“I know your secret,” I intone in a low voice.

I paid through the nose to get it. But it's surprising what a good lick job will get you from a grateful girl that works at the local medical clinic. Nice to have the goods on someone you hate.

And there's no one on this planet I hate more than Father Weston.

I see the slight tremble of his fingers hovering over the knob. “You do not know anything about me.”

“I know that Anna doesn't have any children.”

Weston whips around so fast he causes a breeze to flow between us.

“Rachel doesn't have any.”

Wives three and four barren?
I don't think so.

He fists the material of my shirt.

I whip my arms out, leaning into his gesture as if to say,
Bring it
. I can tell by his tight expression he'd love to. He's holding on to his false demeanor by a thread. “Careful, Father Weston.” I lean forward, our noses a centimeter from touching. “Don't want to spoil your lily-fucking-white rep,” I goad him.

The grip of his hand tightens.

“You're fucking sterile,” I grind out, “and you think a new wife will somehow make your cock shoot something other than blanks?” I laugh. And yeah, it's at his expense.

He hits me.

I didn't think Weston would chance it.

I stagger back, my jaw aching, my hands whipping out for balance. I go down on one knee, gingerly touching the sore spot he put there.

I know I can kick his ass. Twice. I taste my vengeance like ashes on my tongue. But that won't feed into my tidy plan. Getting Weston where I need him is critical.

I want a piece of the Chosen pie. And I'll commit every sin known—and ones that aren't—to see my agenda through.

My gaze meets his. “Hit me again, and I won't hold back. Physically or verbally,” I say in a low voice. “I'll tell everyone that you're marrying women to produce heirs for your fucked-up legacy that you can't produce.”

He pauses, his other fist ready to mete damage. A familiar dynamic in the Weston household. I'm littered with scars and healed fractures from his
love.

“You wouldn't.”

I smile, taste copper at the corner of my mouth, and grin. It feels like a malicious expression on my face. Cuz it is. “Oh yes I would,
Dad.

His hand drops to his side, his eyes darting down each direction of the hall. Weston's shoulders lose the tension they held when he sees we didn't have an audience.

I stand, wiping a finger where my lip is cut. A crimson smear stains the tip.

He folds his arms. “I won't ask how you found out.”

I smile, and the movement stings. “Does it matter?”

His expression is fleetingly uncertain, then his face moves into the typical hard lines of absolution and confidence.

But I'd seen the shadow of his indecision and happiness bloom like an ugly flower at the fissures in his perfection, easing the tightness of my chest.

“No,” he finally answers, his voice curt. His gaze narrows on my face. “You want something.”

No shit.

I want to
fuck
the Chosen.
I'll get her pregnant and then make her love me and leave you.
The fall from his tower of ivory will be great. I'll have a front-row seat at his collapse.

Audrey is collateral damage.

“I want you to leave me the fuck alone, or I'll ruin you.”

I'll give Weston this. He doesn't react. Not a flicker. The man's made of stone. His powerful hand cups his chin, his eyes hooded.

His hands drop to his side, his stance one of defeat.

I feel as though I've won.

Then he tells me it's a limited victory. “You are the vessel of my will, Kiev.” His spine straightens.

I'm
nobody's
vessel. “What?” I ask in a hollow voice.

“I am still her husband. And as such, I have full rights to her body. Any woman's body who becomes my wife.”

It's a sucker punch of words.

Somewhere deep down, I'd thought that I could save her from Father Weston. His sick agenda. Yeah, I'd wanted her for myself. I want to use her as a weapon against my father.

His lips curl. “Did you think I would relinquish my rights to her because I am—”

“Can't perform,” I fill in with a voice as neutral as I can make it. Which is, of course, full of meaning with its very emptiness.

He growls, stepping into my space again, and I hold my own, wanting to hurt him in the worst way. I bite the inside of my lip, letting the pain keep me in line.

I have poked the snake. I know it. He knows it.

I have to rein in my temper. I won't get what I want, and patience is not my best quality.

“I perform fine.”

I can't contain my surprise. I clench my jaw.
Fuck
—I'd been hoping he was impotent. I don't think about why that matters.

“You want to
have
her? Even though you can't produce your spawn?” I feel my chin jerk back in disbelief. “Doesn't that violate about a hundred of your fucked-up rules?”

He slaps me.

My face rockets back.

I jettison my palms into his chest like two well-timed bombs, and he hits the door.

The knob hadn't been seated in the striker, and it flies open, revealing a red-faced Audrey.

Her eyes chase between Weston and me.

“What's going on?” she asks in a small voice. Her luminous aquamarine
eyes are like startled jewels in the white sea of her face as they find me.

Incinerate me to my soul.

My dick jumps at the last memory of her. At least now she's got something on besides cum and skin.

 

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