Corporal punishment.

"As the good book says... there are punishments for those who sin," you begin, and the hope in her expression shrinks. "Has Mr. Cross ever hit you, as punishment?"

"No!" she all but spits out. "He's always very gentle with me, and never once raised a hand, save a few spankings when I was younger... I can't... he wouldn't want this-"

"Of course he wouldn't," you interject, "which is why I'm here, Ophelia." She backs away with fear in her eyes, but finds herself against her closed bedroom door all too quickly. "He knows what the Lord wants... it's written for us all to follow, but he knows he won't do what is needed. You don't need a confessor, Mrs. Cross." You place your hands on her shoulders... and pull her into a hug. It is a simple gesture, and one that stuns her as her massive chest flattens against your body. You try to put all the warmth and not-arousal you can into this clutch. "You need me... an absolver."

"Absolver...?" She breathes rapidly against you, and trembles. "... I'm so sorry..." She pulls away... and you see that your shirt is stained in blotches, as is her tank-top. Apparently even hugs cause her to lactate... God, you can't wait to have this woman in your bed... or at least next to it, ready to serve you for every breakfast. You tuck away the various fantasies, for now: first, it was time to... redeem... the sinful Mrs. Cross. "We'll need rope," you whisper, "and failing that we'll need your sheets."

It takes almost half an hour of her roaming the apartment to find what you need, the process taking a great deal of guilting, faux religious idolation, and references to Mr. Cross to keep her moving. All the while, with every whispered message and gentle caress, you continue to fill her apartment with your pheromones, making no place a refuge from your growing, insidious power over her. Before long, she finally caves and reveals to you her husband's "study" (the narrow bookcase filled with religious and sports texts was all that made it more than a trophy room). You saw it more than once already, but only now does she open the closet door and reveal, in a tidy avalanche, his collection of sports and exercise equipment, a few of which catch your eye: half a dozen jump ropes, mouthpieces that could work in conjunction with a gag, and a few candidates for sticks or clubs with which to punish her... until your eyes fall upon what you would absolutely use: the secret weapon that you have to ignore for now, lest her panic break the slow, chemical hypnosis.

You enter her bedroom shortly after, carrying a wad of jump ropes and a pair of boxing gloves in your arms, and a thick, foam mouthpiece pinched between your fingers. You take stock of the chamber that was probably half her life: sparsely furnished with simple wooden nightstands and vanities, and no decorations save for the wooden crucifix over the king-sized bed, which in turn has a throw on it with the Holy Mother depicted in prayer. All that exists beyond this is a plain wooden crib, inside which sleeps the ugly little Lazarus. You escort her as she rolls the crib into the study; you have no intention of letting a baby's crying ruin this.

You reflect on your plan as you guide her back to the bedroom: you only got to try bondage with one of your girlfriends of the past... and being that she was a switch, you seldom got to test the knots and bindings before she grew tired of you. Still, you feel confident you can replicate some of your old work... and against the nubile Ophelia, what hope does she have? "Bend over the front of the bed, and do not move until you've earned the right."

She rapidly glances between you and the bed. You offer only the stone mask of your pretended role, the Absolver, the one who is meant to punish her by her husband's wish. Resigned to her fate, she casts herself into Mother Mary's bosom, perhaps hoping for relief. She'll find none, and slowly becomes aware of it as you tie complex, tight knots with the jump rope. It's awkward, tying her ankles then to the legs of the bed (it has no posts), but you make it work until she's firmly rooted. All the while, she holds herself up with her elbows, but soon this too is taken from her: tying the jump ropes together, you make bindings long enough to tie the back legs of the bed to her wrists. You then show her the punching gloves and, much to her relief, put the narrow, black sleeves over her hands instead of yours. It looks awkward, certainly, but sealing off her nails means worrying even less about her escape. You close the gloves tightly to ensure this... and all that remains... is the motivator.

"I will return shortly."

"What-?" But she doesn't get to ask, and she certainly has no position to protest. Perhaps used to being meek around a man, she doesn't yell after you as you walk away with one of her pillows. She wouldn't guess the purpose, either: a few minutes later, you've knotted the thing into a gag and, much to the relief of your prick, you masturbate onto it, soaking its entire surface in your sperm. What remains on its surface in thick glops gets scooped up into the mouthpiece, coating it as well. Satisfied with your preparation, you raid her fridge and, with a leftover sandwich and a jug of OJ in your belly, you're ready to whittle away the night with your new toy.

"Mr. Peck, please!" Her **** tone as you re-enter gives you pause, even as you hold her next snacks/gag carefully in your hands.

"What does the sinner want?"

She swallows, her face red. "I'm... I think I... I need to pee." You smile. She is too adorable for this life, clearly. So you'll give her another one. "Please, I- wait, what is in-rreaf!" She barely gets to question the gray material in the mouth piece before you've shoved it into her mouth. It presses against her pearly whites, the cum is **** onto her gums... and as her eyes grow wide from the chemical attack, you shove the pillow case knot, soaked in more of your poison, into her mouth, deep enough to **** her tongue to engage it and to keep it tucked in with the mouthpiece. By the time you're done tying it to her head as insurance, {if Evo_superiorseed = true}her body quivers with its first orgasm.{else@}her body is quivering as she manages weak chews on the knot.{endif}

"A sinner, clothed in her crimes, cannot be absolved without first stripping away that which protects her," you announce, now rummaging through her vanity. She looks over at you with a dazed expression, and offers only barely-audible moans against the gag. You eventually find, to no one's surprise, the drawer dedicated to one of the few hobbies her manipulate spouse likely allows: sewing. You hold up the fabric shears where she can see. "Let us strip you of your base comforts, Ophelia." This, at last, breaks all trust she had in you. She begins screaming hysterically into the gag, and proves that someone outside the bedroom would struggle to hear her, nevermind a neighbor.

You pluck off her shoes and socks, and massage the bottom of her feet with a deeply-pressed thumb. You let both hands travel up those gorgeous, thick legs until they find the hotpants, and with the sheer tucking into the seam between them and her thigh (she jumps as the cold metal presses against her), you begin your cutting. With deliberate and slow sliced, you undress her, savoring the new bits of flesh as they are revealed and taking care to not undo the underwear until you're finished with the topmost layer. The shears chew through the belt of her shorts and her spasming, terrified ass shrugs the ruined shorts off like two massive pedals on a new flower, revealing her white granny panties... and the damp stain between her legs. You lower your face to it, just short of touching it, and inhale the pungent aroma of her arousal. "You smell like a bitch in heat, Mrs. Cross," you taunt her, no longer afraid of her rebelling. "Do not shame yourself further... the Holy Mother is watching."

She begins to cry softly, looking back at you with tears as the shears make quick work of her panties. You pull away the bit of fabric, and shove it into your nose, audibly snorting up her stink as you round the bed to make sure she sees the act. When at last you exhale, you see her wide eyes. Ah, she's learning. With a sadistic grin, you shove her own soiled underwear into her face. "What is this whorish odor, Ophelia? Can you not control yourself? Have you no love for Jesus, replacing it with this lust of yours?" She can only offer moans of denial into her gag, **** to breathe in her own pussy juice lest she suffocate.

Satisfied, you toss the panties to the floor and all but stab the scissors into the tank top, almost nicking her with the blade as you tear through the top with the shear's edge. With a quick tug, her bare breasts are pooled against the bed, likely soaking it with food meant for the baby next door. You ignore said baby when you go and get that secret weapon that caught your eye... and when you return, her hysterics grow tenfold as she tugs at your bindings and thrashes, mostly immobilized, on the bed. You hold it up, and marvel.

ALPHA.

RHO.

EPSILON.

In the Greek lettering: A. P. E.

Fitting, for a man of Mr. Cross' temperament, that he should come from a fraternity with such an acronym. APE isn't too well-known, certainly by the likes of you, so you have no historic appreciation for what you hold. But as an amateur craftsman, you can appreciate the polish of this four-foot paddle, the holes bored into it to decease wind resistance, and the fact that the the lettered side maintains its varnish... while the service side is worn down to the raw, ugly wood. You look down at Ophelia with a smile. "Has he used this on you?" She freezes, staring at you with wide, fearful eyes. "Answer honestly, Ophelia... Jesus is watching."

She closes her eyes, squeezing out tears... and either out of fear of you or somehow regained belief in your lies, she nods.

Earlier she said he never hit her... apparently, like a good Christian child, she was taught that this was different. You find yourself light-headed around her child-like fear, as if she too released pheromones of unnatural allure. You slowly inch towards her face with yours, crawling on the bed as you do so. "Then your terror... is because you know how he uses it... and you must know that, unlike your husband who loves you..." You near her turned face... and give her ear a gentle probe with your tongue. "... God will show no mercy... through... ME."

She whimpers loudly, tears flowing from her eyes... and a familiar scent fills the room. Moving quickly behind her, you confirm it: you scared the piss out of her, and quite literally so. As the urine drips down her thighs, you see that you have a true opportunity to terrorize and hurt your prey before taking her... but you also needn't waste time you may not have. You could simply shove into her and knock her up immediately, skipping the "foreplay" of paddling her with a childhood phobia.