&nb
sp; But is it sloth if I have been commanded to stay here? And I’ve run out of chores?
The thing is, the sermon was so compelling. I understood the danger of that sin immediately after he explained it to us. I know I need to get up. I can almost sense Father Daddy's disapproving stare if he knew what I was doing right now. Just laying here, pretending to want to sleep.
He would be so disappointed, he would probably get that look in his eyes, that angry squint. The one where he is trying to calculate something, as though he can weigh the amount of sin like a sack of flour or something. Hold it in his hands. Bounce it against his palm, with his arms and chest flexing under the weight of it.
And then it overtakes me again. Images of Father Daddy and Brother Owen with the newly-named Obedience. I know I wasn't supposed to be there, and the remaining, stinging ache on my backside and legs reminds me just how much. Mama’s cruel, enraged expression is something I won’t be able to forget soon either. I know I risked embarrassing her in front of the other aunties. That would not have been forgivable.
Yet, I can't bring myself to regret it. It was an absolutely miraculous vision I witnessed. I can’t forget the glory of Father Daddy and Brother Owen in their unabashed nakedness, their literal holy forms exposed to me, as they made a woman of Obedience.
I curl onto my side, trembling in the thrall of the vision of them that I can't seem to get out of my mind. I know I shouldn't keep replaying at, but I can't help it. I just can't.
What they did to her… that was sacred. That was a secret ritual and knowing that it awaits me too sends electric thrills through the deepest parts of my body. My core trembles. My heart flip-flops from side to side, banging against the inside of my rib cage.
Will they do it just like that? Will Brother Owen open my mouth, place his manhood against my lower lip? What does it taste like? What am I supposed to do with it?
Will Father Daddy lean over me, nudging his manhood against my flower? How could he? He was so big, it doesn't seem possible. I don’t believe I could manage it.
What if I can't? What if I get to the ceremony and it's just impossible? What if there is something wrong with me and my body can't accommodate him?
The thought shocks me. I'm instantly disappointed in myself, filled with shame that I might let them down in such a way.
But it can’t be true. Can it? The results would be devastating. I could be cast out. I could be found defective and sent to live among the heathens.
No. I can do better. And besides, maybe I'm fine. Maybe I'm built exactly like Obedience, and she seemed to manage the ceremony all right, didn't she?
But just to be sure.
I should check?
I should.
Even though Mama told me never to do this, in the strictest and direst of warnings, I let my fingers drift over my belly and into my thick, cotton panties.
I was always told that my hands should only brush over the top of my flower to clean it. Quickly, with a swiping motion. I was definitely not to linger here, I remember as my hands creep even lower. I resolve not to explore it too earnestly. My flower is a gift I am meant to give my Master. It's not to be opened too soon, nor treated roughly.
But I need to be certain. Cautiously, I let my fingers drift to the warmer parts of me. I roll back onto my back and bend my knees up, planting my heels farther apart.
I have to do this. I have to make sure I'm suitable for the ceremony.
Slowly I allow myself to press further, inching my fingertips over my seam, gingerly stroking back and forth, a little deeper and a little deeper yet. Was he here? Is this how deep he went?
No. It was further than this. This can't be all there is. This slippery wetness. This hot seam. I have to see. I hold three fingers together, then four. Is that the right size? Certainly it had to be something like this. That's absurd. How would anything like this ever fit inside me?
I place my heels further apart, trying to visualize my flower unfurling, opening for him. Can I do it? I wiggle against my fingers, and the sensation is different than I expected. It's so moist, so tender. It feels good when I touch myself just at the top, where there are bumps and protrusions that I can't quite identify. This didn't really appear in any of the picture books we were given during our education. But I can feel how it really is like the petals of a flower, how there's a feeling of opening, of becoming more ripe with each second.
I imagine Father Daddy over me, with that intense glare. His eyes boring into mine as his form covers me, blocking out the light. His weight bearing against my hips, pushing my legs open. I need to move a little more, press myself against him a little harder.
We would rock together, nudging our secret parts closer and closer together until they could interlock, until they could join. I could do that for him, and the desire to do that swells inside me like the bursting of a white firework in the sky. It trembles, glittering faintly until suddenly filling the space behind my eyes with lights, a rushing sound in my ears... sparkling, flaming trails that slide down the sky and become cool, watery, silvery bits of bliss rocking me back and forth.
My whole body trembles. My hand is wet and sticky and I realize I've just been to a place I've never been before. It's as though I left my body. It's as though I walked through a portal to another place.
Probably an evil place. Exactly the somewhere my mother explicitly told me not to go, and I did it anyway.
Shame rushes through me. What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done?
I leave my bed, throwing out an arm to balance myself on legs that are wobbly and uncertain. I've just done something I know I'm not supposed to do.