DEELEST

The hallway pulsed like a drumline made of perfume and heat. Laughter spilled from behind the thick velvet curtain, mingling with the sound of Lucille Bogan’s last growl echoing through The Blackline like she left her spirit behind to fuck in her place.

Stack had his arm wrapped around Marigold’s waist, fingers splayed low and intentional across her hip. He walked slow, lazy, like a man drunk on good music and bad behavior, tugging her along like she was his prize and his possession all at once.

His lips were on her neck again, wet and hot, dragging up to the spot just under her jaw where she’d moaned his real name less than an hour ago.

“Lucille always did like a low room,” he whispered against her skin, “Say the air feel heavier, make her voice sit deeper in the cooch. Told me that once…after I poured her a drink in the back room, summer of ’28.” He grinned, nosing into her skin, “Kissed me soon as I brought her that drink. Slid her tongue in like she’d been waitin’ all night to spend it.”

Marigold’s heart pinched.

The hallway narrowed. Her robe clung damp to her thighs. She could still feel his tongue between her legs—the ache of it, the sweet bruised soreness he’d left inside her. But now he was talking about other mouths. Other women. Other nights.

His palm slid down. Grabbed a handful of her ass.

She gasped.

“I ain’t ever liked that woman in a dress, but damn she can sing,” he muttered low, right in her ear, “She sing like she fuck—loud, raw, full of teeth.”

Marigold’s stomach flipped. There was a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize—sharp, hot, bitter at the edges. It sat just beneath her ribs, coiled like a belt pulled too tight.

Jealousy.

It wasn’t holy, but it was alive.

They entered the private lounge through a beaded curtain so thick it rattled like bones in a bag. The heat hit first—soft and thick, touched with sweat and rose oil. The room was velvet dark, lined in oxblood and plum. Satin couches curved around low tables stacked with half-melted candles, fruit trays, ashtrays, and bottles that dripped sweat down their necks. Lucille Bogan sat in the center like a queen who’d fucked her way to the throne. Her thighs were spread in a satin halter gown, glitter still clinging to her chest. She was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and wearing a crooked grin that had broken a hundred men and at least two women that very week.

“Look who the dog done dragged up from between some thighs,” she crooned when she saw Stack. Her voice was smoke and dirty promise, dipped in molasses, “You still talkin’ sweet to ‘em, Mr. Magic Stick?”

Marigold stiffened.

Stack smirked.

Behind Lucille sprawled her girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona. All three were thick in the hips, tits spilling, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted dark like devils at a revival. Faye had one shoe off. Trixie was barefoot and flashing her pasties. Ramona had her leg slung over the arm of a velvet chair, her cleavage deep enough to drown in.

“Ooooh weee,” Ramona purred when she laid eyes on Stack. “Look at them lips. Got the kind of mouth make a girl see stars and the Lord.”

“I bet they soft too,” Trixie said, leaning forward, “Soft like silk on a sore tit.”

Faye laughed, drunk and delighted, “He got the kind of mouth make you forget what day it is. I wanna sit on it just to find out how deep it go.”

Lucille howled, “Y’all leave that boy alone! He just got done eatin’. Can’t you tell by the glow on his skin?”

Marigold froze.

Her glow.

Her cheeks burned. Her hands tightened around the wine glass that Peaches had handed her when they stepped in —unasked, unexpected, just thrust into her hand like she needed something to hold other than shame. She stood toward the back of the room, wrapped in Stack’s robe, her curls pinned up messily, damp with sweat and post-orgasm glow. Her lips were bare. Her feet were bare. She didn’t belong here, and everyone could feel it. She watched as Ramona straddled Stack’s thigh for a second, just being nasty, rolling her hips slow while Faye hooted and Trixie clapped.

Stack grinned. Didn’t stop her right away. That tightness in Marigold’s chest twisted again. He finally tapped Ramona’s thigh and leaned back, laughing.

“Y’all wild tonight,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table.

“Wild?” Ramona licked her lips, “Baby, we just gettin’ started. You tryna start church or confession?”

That’s when Faye clocked Marigold.

“Who’s that?” she slurred, nodding toward the shadows, “You brought a lamb to the slaughter, Stack?”

Stack glanced back—spotted Marigold still hovering, stiff and quiet in her robe. He stood and said it calm. Straight.

“That’s Goldie.”

A pause.

Then Lula’s voice slid out from one of the corners like mischief in silk, “Y’all ain’t ready.” She grinned, tipping her wine glass, “That’s the preacher’s wife.”

Gasps. Whoops. Cackles.

Ramona’s mouth fell open.

Faye clutched her chest. Trixie screamed with laughter, “Well damn! Baby got saved and backslid in the same night!” Lucille sipped her drink and said, “Mmm. Praise be.” Marigold’s ears rang. The robe felt tighter. Her skin buzzed with humiliation. Stack moved back to her side. Slipped a hand around her waist. Spoke just to her now.

“They don’t mean no harm, baby.”

Marigold didn’t answer. She sipped her wine, jaw set, heat crawling up her neck like shame wrapped in silk.

Stack spoke low and hot against her jaw, “Mm. You jealous, church girl?”

She don’t answer—eyes cut away like she tryna pretend she ain’t, but that little pout say otherwise.

He chuckles, darker now, “Don’t do that…Don’t act like I ain’t just had you moanin’ through that pillow like it was gospel. Had you callin’ my name like it saved you.” He leans in, lips ghostin’ her ear, voice rich and mean-smooth, “Ain’t a damn thing Ramona could do for me. That lil’ loose beaver? That thing so stretched it don’t even blink no more.”

He grins when she stifles a gasp—embarrassed, maybe turned on. Both.

Stack whispers filthier, slow, “But you?” He hums, low and sinful, “You got that fat, tight coochie with the kind of grip that make a man rethink his whole lifestyle. Sweet… soft…messy.”

He licks his lips like he can still taste her, “Still got your scent on my mustache. Smell like sugar.” His hand brushed the hem of his robe on her thigh, “Could’ve stayed in that room all night, tongue deep in your pussy, suckin’ you ‘til you begged me to stop—then beggin’ me not to.”

He lets the words drip down her neck like honey, “Don’t stand here tryna act shy now. You ain’t just fucked me, baby. You fed me.” His tongue clicks, “Ain’t no bird in here ever gone do me like you did.”

Cordelia watched from a chaise—didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Peaches clocked the whole thing, slow sippin’ her drink, quiet and knowing. And in the center of it all, Lucille raised her glass and purred.

“To the preacher’s wife.”

The girls howled.

Marigold didn’t raise her glass. Too shaky to hold it steady.

But Stack?

He kissed her temple, right there in front of everyone.

“To Goldie.”

The girls didn’t stop after the toast. If anything, Lucille’s declaration lit a new fire under their asses. Faye was already making a lap of the room with the whiskey bottle, pouring straight into mouths like communion. Ramona threw one leg over the arm of Stack’s chair again, this time leaning so close he could smell the peach liquor on her breath.

“So you really Mr. Magic Stick, huh?” she purred, eyes sliding down his frame, “That mean what I think it mean?”

Lucille barked out a laugh from her corner, “It mean that boy carryin’ a whole slab in them pants.” She looked Marigold dead in the eye, grinning crooked and filthy, “You felt it yet, baby? That beef?”

Marigold nearly choked on her wine. Her hand jerked slightly.

Lucille didn’t miss a beat.

“Or you still tight like a communion cup?”

Cackles. More laughing. Ramona practically doubled over.

Marigold’s face burned. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but the ache between them betrayed her. Because she could still feel it. Stack’s thick fingers stretching her, curling up and stroking until she screamed his name like a psalm rewritten. She tried to look away. But Stack…he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He reached for her again, real calm and pulled her back into his side.

“Chill out on Goldie,” he said, low and smooth, looking at Lucille, not angry, but serious enough that the air shifted.

The girls backed off just a little, not with guilt, but with the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit a nerve. But Stack…Stack turned back to Marigold like the room didn’t even exist.

His lips brushed her ear, “You okay?”

She nodded, stiff.

He stroked her waist with his thumb—slow, warm, grounding—then dipped his head to speak low, close, the rum in his breath licking her jaw.

“They don’t matter.” Another stroke, “Ain’t none of ‘em tasted you tonight.”

She shivered.

He chuckled under his breath. His hand moved lower. She felt it first at her hip. Then her thigh. Then…higher. His fingers crept beneath the hem of her robe, slow as sin. He watched her body while he did it. Watched the way she froze, the way her lips parted, the way her lashes trembled. His hand slipped between her legs. She gasped, soft and helpless. He found her still wet. Still open. Still aching.

“Mmm,” he whispered, tongue grazing her earlobe, “You feel that? That’s how good you taste. Still leakin’ for me.”

She pressed her thighs together, breath hitched, eyes flicking up to the room—terrified someone saw. But they hadn’t. Faye was now leaning against the piano, trying to light a cigarette upside down. Ramona had moved on to flirting with Cordelia, licking her lips and tracing a finger down her arm. Cordelia smirked slow, seductive, her lashes low, clearly entertained. But not untouched. Not untouched at all.

Peaches stood across the room, watching with a stillness too heavy for the wine in her hand. Her eyes lingered on Cordelia a second too long. And when Ramona whispered something in Cordelia’s ear and Cordelia laughed, tilting her head just enough to flirt back. Peaches looked down into her glass like it said something she didn’t want to read. And meanwhile, back in the chair, Marigold sat perched on the edge of sin and secrecy. Stack’s fingers were slow. Teasing. Just sliding along her slit, not pushing in, just petting. His voice was a dark lullaby in her ear.

“I could make you cum in this room, right now,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Just let you ride my fingers till you soak this seat. Make you whimper all holy and hushlike, and they wouldn’t know whether to praise you or punish you.”

She trembled.

Her hand gripped his thigh hard and she felt it then.

His bulge.

Thick. Hard. Pressed against the inside of his slacks. She could feel it throbbing beneath her hand, begging for release.

And the best part?

She wanted it.

Even with Lucille laughing. Even with Faye drunk. Even with Ramona trying to seduce Cordelia and Peaches staring like she wanted to throw a drink. Marigold wanted him to pull her onto his lap and feed it to her like communion. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God to stop the pulse between her legs. Stack pulled her down without asking. One firm tug and Marigold was planted full in his lap, thighs parted around his, her robe still barely hiding anything from the rising temperature in the room. She let out the softest gasp, wine sloshing in her glass as her ass settled directly on top of his bulge.

Lord have mercy…

She could feel every inch of him. Hot. Heavy. Hard as a damn pipe beneath her. Her thighs instinctively clenched, but that only made it worse. Stack leaned back in the plush velvet chair, one arm draped low on her waist, the other nursing his drink—some deep brown rum with heat like woodsmoke. His breath smelled sweet and dangerous.

And he was drunk now.

Not slurring. Not stumbling. Just loose-limbed, voice thick, lips glossy, eyes heavy-lidded and full of sin. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and hummed low, the sound vibrating against her collarbone.

“Mmm. That ass feel like a prayer answered, Goldie.” Another sip, “So damn soft…I swear I could die right here between your cheeks and not even ask why.”

She squirmed.

The fabric between them soaked with heat. His dick throbbed against her, and she gripped her glass tighter, trying to stay calm, to stay present, to not melt in front of all these people. Lucille’s girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona—had taken to the center of the room now, hips swaying, tipsy and barefoot, performing a slow, sensual dance to a new track Lucille had put on. The record crackled with low horns and thick bass—something slow and sticky that made folks clap and laugh and yell encouragement as they moved. The room had filled out more. High rollers now. A tall, dark-skinned man with diamond cufflinks and a silk scarf strolled in through the back curtain. He was flanked by two women—one of them none other than Odessa in a cream lace gown, lips painted like sin, cigarette in hand. She tossed her curls and smiled when she spotted Stack.

“You done turned this lounge into a juke brothel,” she teased.

The man behind her? That was Langston Duvall, one of the most infamous Black Stag film directors in the South. Folks said he could make anybody a star…if you were bold enough. But Marigold was too caught up in the man behind her. Stack nuzzled into her neck again, his voice dropping into a filthy hush only she could hear.

“You feel that?” He rocked his hips slow. Up. Just enough, “That’s all you. Got my dick hard and heavy and beggin’. You sittin’ on a problem, baby.”

She bit her lip, “Stop,” she whispered, heat flushing up her throat.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You don’t want me to stop.”

His hand slid back down to her hip, strong fingers stroking slow circles into her side.

“How you think it’s gon feel once I slide up in you, Miss Goldie?”

Her breath hitched. He kissed her neck again, voice thick with liquor and filth.

“You think that sweet lil’ pussy can take all this dick?”

A pause.

“Or you think I’ma have to stuff it in slow…make you cry a lil’ bit…break you in proper?”

Marigold whimpered.

“Elias—” she whispered, scandalized.

He groaned softly at the sound of his real name coming from her mouth again.

“Say it again,” he rasped, grinding up once more.

She shook her head, curls falling loose from the combs. Her thighs trembled. Her robe loosened just slightly. Across the room, Ramona had slithered up next to Cordelia, whispering in her ear while tracing the line of her arm with a painted fingernail. Cordelia didn’t move—just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a smirk that wasn’t quite rejection. But it wasn’t acceptance either. From across the room, Peaches watched. She didn’t say a word. She just sipped slow from her wine and looked at Cordelia like maybe, just maybe…

Marigold was trembling. Not from cold. Not from nerves. But from the weight of him pressed beneath her, from the slow, steady, merciless filth pouring from his mouth like it was scripture. Stack had her in his lap like she was built for it. His hand gripped her waist, guiding every subtle grind, every twitch of his hips, every bounce that made his hard length throb right against her bare center.

“You feel so fuckin’ good sittin’ on me like this,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, drunk and raw, lips dragging across her throat, “Soft ass…warm lil’ pussy. I swear I can feel the steam comin’ off you.”

Marigold bit her lip hard.

Her leg started bouncing—slow at first, then harder— as if her body was begging for a release her mind was too shy to name.

Stack noticed. Of course he did. He grinned against her skin.

“That leg don’t lie, baby.” He slid his palm down her thigh, then back up again, gripping the meat of it with one big hand, “That mean you ready for somethin’. Ready for me to lift this robe, spit on that lil’ clit, and eat you all over again.”

She whimpered.

Hands gripped the arms of the velvet chair like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth. And then—He adjusted himself. Slow. Deliberate. Tilted his hips up, ground his bulge against her with a soft hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m so hard it hurt.” He rocked again, “You doin’ that. All that tight lil’ heat rubbin’ against me. Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you tasted.” He brought his hand to her jaw. Turned her face slightly, “Sweet and messy. Like rum and God’s mistake.”

Marigold couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Her breath came in shaky little pulls. Her lips were slick. Her skin was dewy. Her thighs were trembling so bad it felt like her bones might rattle.

Stack leaned in again, right against her ear now, “I can still taste you,” he growled, “On my tongue. In the rum. In the back of my throat. Pussy that good don’t disappear.”

She gasps. Bites her lip again. Shakes her head, mouthing stop even though she doesn’t want him to.

He laughs, low and lazy, “Mmm. You pretty when you beggin’ without beggin’.”

His hands slid lower again, and she could feel it—the way his dick twitched beneath her like it was ready to break out, demand entry, claim the rest of what he hadn’t already conquered. And then—He shifted again. His voice changed. Lower. More urgent.

“C’mon,” he said into her ear, like he was asking her to run off to war, “I need you in my mouth again.”

He stood up with her in his arms before she could answer. Cradled her like something soft and sinful. Walked straight past Lucille and her girls, past Cordelia, past Peaches, past the high rollers, past the eyes.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t ask.

Just carried his preacher’s wife out the velvet lounge like a man who’d already been to heaven and wanted another bite.

They moved like smoke through silk.

Stack didn’t put her down—not once. His arms wrapped firm around Marigold’s waist, her thighs draped over his forearm, her robe hanging loose now, one comb slipping free from her curls with each step. The hallway behind the lounge narrowed into darkness and hush. No more music. No more laughter. Just the faint creak of wood beneath his boots and the way her breath caught every time he squeezed her tighter.

The walls changed here. No longer velvet red. Now black, with gold-painted edges and soft sconces that flickered like candlelight. It smelled like tobacco and perfume and pine floors. A hidden hallway inside the beating heart of The Blackline—one only certain girls and certain men had seen. And at the end of it, a single lacquered door.

Stack kicked it open.

Inside, it was warm, dim, private. A small room with no windows. A low couch. A velvet chaise. Hooks on the wall for hanging clothes and ropes. And at the center, a tall, wide chair—almost like a throne—carved from dark wood, plush and deep with an ottoman in front.

He called it the initiation room.

Because this is where he trained them. Broke them in. Showed them how to be touched right. How to be wanted. How to open without apology. He set her down slow, eyes already dark with liquor and lust, his slacks heavy at the groin, the outline of his dick thick, long, straining against the fabric. Marigold adjusted her robe on instinct, tugging it tighter across her chest. Stack watched her. Silent. Heat pouring from him in waves. Then—lazy, slouched—he took the center chair, legs wide, dick heavy between his thighs. His hand reached to stroke the thick length through his pants, slow.

“You know what this is, right?” he asked, voice low, smoky, “This where new girls get broken in.”

Marigold blinked at him, “What?”

“You a new girl tonight, ain’t you?” he said, grinning now, “Ain’t that how you actin’? All shy and sweet. All tight and unclaimed. That robe don’t fool me. That pussy still mine.”

She shifted in place, heart racing, thighs pressed together, “I—don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean…” he said, leaning forward, “tonight you just a little thing walkin’ in off the street. Lookin’ to be initiated. We don’t fuck on first meetin’. We just… introduce your pussy to my mouth.”

Marigold flushed hard.

She shook her head, took a step back, “Stack—”

He groaned loud, frustrated, hand still stroking his dick through the fabric.

“Lord, you still shy?” His hand gripped the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, “You sittin’ on my face less than an hour ago, squirtin’ on my tongue and cryin’ my name like and now you actin’ brand new?”

Her eyes dropped to his lap—and froze.

The bulge in his pants was obscene. Long. Wide. So hard it curved slightly to the left beneath the fabric, pushing against the zipper like it wanted out. His thighs were spread just wide enough to make it worse,

Stack saw where she was lookin’. Smirked.

“Yeah. You lookin’ at it now.”

She flinched.

He stood up.

The room felt smaller suddenly. His height, his weight, the pressure of him. He curled two fingers, beckoning.

“C’mere.”

Marigold didn’t move.

He stepped forward.

“C’mere, Goldie.”

Still nothing. Then, in a flash, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her over his lap. She gasped, caught off guard, and suddenly she was bent over his knee, robe hiked, thighs bare, her ass warm in the low light.

“You wanna act like you ain’t hear me? Like you some brat?” he muttered, hand grazing her ass, “Then I’ma treat you like one.”

POP.

The first slap landed firm.

She yelped.

POP.

The second—harder.

“You don’t talk back.”

POP.

“You don’t tell me to stop talkin’ nasty when you like it.”

POP.

“You know how I know?” He slid his hand between her thighs, pressed two fingers to the mess between her legs, “’Cause this pussy still wet, still leakin’, still beggin’.”

She sobbed into her arm. Not from pain. But from overwhelm.

“Stack—please—”

He rubbed her clit once, slow, right over the hood. Then smacked her ass again.

“You wanna act like a hireling? Then obey.”

Her body arched. Her thighs trembled. She moaned, soft, high, like something sacred had come loose in her throat. He leaned down close, lips to her ear.

“You gon’ be a good girl for me now?”

She nodded, breathless.

He rubbed her again, slower this time. Warm circles. Fingers slick.

“Say it.”

“I’ll be good,” she whispered.

“Say you’ll obey.”

She swallowed. Gasped. Let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll obey.”

He kissed her spine. Smirked against her skin.

“That’s more like it.”

Marigold stood motionless, spine straight, heart slamming in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her robe clung to her skin, warm and damp from nerves and arousal, her lips parted in a soft pant. Behind her, Stack lit a match with one hand, cigar between his lips, watching her in silence through the flare of flame. The smoke curled slow.

“You nervous?” he asked low, voice rough like crushed velvet dragged over gravel.

Marigold nodded, throat tight.

Stack exhaled, slow and hot, “Good.”

He stepped closer, and the smell of him wrapped around her—rum, sweat, and whatever spell she was under that made her knees feel like sugar. His voice dropped again, almost tender, almost cruel, “Strip for me, baby.”

Her fingers trembled. But she obeyed.

The robe slid down her shoulders like a sigh. Stack watched her every move like he was starving. When she stood trembling and bare beneath the low light, he stepped forward again.

“Turn around,” he said, “Let me see what I came for.”

She turned, slow. Back to him. Bent over, shy. The curves of her ass framed the shadows like a painting. Thick. Plush. The kind of softness that promised comfort and ruin. The little thatch of hair between her thighs peeked out from behind, soft and natural, untouched. Even her ass had a dusting of hair—Stack’s eyes glazed, lips parted, dimples deepening with a twitch of awe.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, “That’s beautiful.”

She whimpered.

“Spread it.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark. Just…asked. Smooth. Confident. Heavy. Her hand reached back, slow. Nervous. She spread one cheek. And Stack groaned. Low and filthy, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby vanity like he needed to brace himself.

“Look at that sweet little fuckin’ hole,” he said, voice thick, eyes glued to the split, “So soft…so warm…like it pulsin’ for me already.” He chuckled, “Look at you shakin’. You like that?”

She nodded.

“You need to hear how nasty I get when I’m in love with a pussy like yours?” His laugh was gravel, “Down,” he commanded gently. “On all fours. Spread wide.”

She moved—like a puppet string pulled her hips down. Elbows on the rug. Hips cocked. She arched. Obeyed. Her thighs shook as she parted them, wide and low, dripping and glistening. Stack dropped to his knees behind her with awe, cigar tossed aside, hands gripping her thighs just to feel how warm and soft her skin was. His head tilted, admiring the creamy slick gathering at the center of her pussy like dew. Her lips were puffy. Dark with blood flow. And wet—soaked.

“Look at this sweet fuckin’ thing. Leakin’ already, baby,” he whispered, almost like prayer, “She twitchin’. Can’t even wait her turn.”

He dragged one thumb through the slick, watching it glisten in the low light. Marigold whimpered. Her head dropped forward, face hot. She couldn’t meet his gaze if she tried—too undone already.

Stack leaned close, lips brushing her inner thigh, “You wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded. Weak.

“You creamy?” he asked, licking the crease slowly, “Mmm. You are.” He sucked on her inner thigh, hands spreading her wide, eyes locked on her dripping pussy like it held scripture. His voice rasped like sandpaper coated in syrup, “She openin’ up for me, sayin’ Stack come taste. Stack come break me off. Stack come ruin me slow.”

Marigold moaned. He didn’t touch her with his mouth yet. Just hovered. Breathed on her. Talked to it.

“Look at them lips. Soft little folds. All that pink under all that brown…fuck. That’s art. That’s heaven. I could tongue kiss you ‘til the sun burn out.”

He finally looked at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark, jaw flexing. His mouth glistened from the slick he’d smeared with his thumb across her skin. His hair was a little messy, that left side part falling forward now. His gold tooth flashed when he smirked.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, “You gon’ do just fine. I got you, girl.”

She trembled. He lowered again, hands gripping her ass like they belonged there, like he paid for them. He leaned in, lips parting, breath hot.

And when he finally licked—she nearly screamed.

He kissed her once. Just above the slit. Lips soft. Reverent. Then—One long lick. Thick tongue dragging slow and heavy up her folds like he was trying to taste her whole life. From her weeping entrance to the shy rise of her clit, Stack lapped like he was licking honey off his knuckles. Marigold gasped, full-body shiver rippling from her spine to her toes.

“Mmm.” Stack hummed.

Low. Deep. The sound vibrated right against her pussy like a second tongue.

He licked again, “Mmm.”

The hum came slower this time. A breath through his nose, an exhale through his throat, like he was worshipping. Like her pussy was something divine and he was singing to it.

Lick.

“Mmm.”

Every single stroke of his tongue left her wetter. Creamier. Shakier.

“Keep still,” he murmured against her folds, voice sticky and ruined, “You don’t run from what’s holy.”

Another lick. This one messier. Longer. His nose dragged through her curls, and his tongue stayed flat, savoring the way she leaked for him. Her thighs trembled.

“Mmm.”

Marigold moaned into the crook of her elbow, eyes glassy, face flushed. Her whole body was vibrating—hunger and fear and fire wrapped up in one trembling package of please don’t stop. She was slick down her thighs now. Her nipples stiffened so hard they ached. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed, twitching with each lick, each breath, each hum.

And then—he pulled back.

Stack sat up slow, like he was high off it. Eyes heavy-lidded. Lips glossy. Breath uneven. His big hand slid over his mouth but didn’t wipe anything away—he pressed that wet tongue to the corner of his mouth like he was tasting what lingered. He licked his lips, slow and wide, the kind of lick that started from the corner and dragged across—glossy, syrup-thick, leaving his lower lip shining. His tongue was big. Wide and full, pink and strong like it had been built to taste only pussy. It hung in the corner of his mouth for a moment, heavy with saliva, damn near dripping.

He looked wrecked.

“Fffuck, baby…” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, “Look at this. Just look.”

His hands slid to her ass, spreading her again. Tilting his head. His lip curled when he saw the fresh drip stringing from her slit to her inner thigh.

“She twitchin’. Look at that pretty lil hole flexin’ like she beggin’ me to come back.” He popped her ass once with a soft thud, “You missin’ me already?”

Another thump. Then a grip. Hard.

“Don’t run. You hear me?” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You fuckin’ beautiful. Look at you. Back dimples, sweet fat lips, lil brown ring peekin’ out like a kiss. You made for this.”

She couldn’t answer. She was panting. Shaking. Her pussy so wet it squelched when she shifted slightly. Her elbows were trembling from holding herself up. Her chest was flushed, nipples taut, her mouth slack. She felt like she was outside herself—somewhere hovering, waiting to fall apart under his voice alone.

Stack stared like he was painting her in his mind.

His lip curled. He bit it. Grinned. Spanked her again just to watch the jiggle. His handprint bloomed hot and red across her ass. Then—He thumped her once more and sighed, eyes rolling back like a man on the edge.

“Go on,” he said, voice deep as thunder but velvet smooth, “Bend over the chaise.”

His tone changed.

Roleplay resumed.

Like he was the man in charge of breaking her in.

“Put them hands flat. Arch that back. Spread them legs. Don’t make me say it twice.”

She moved like a whisper. Silken, shy. The chaise groaned as she leaned over it, hands braced. Her thighs parted. Her pussy still slick. Still open. And Stack just stood behind her for a moment, rubbing his hand down his beard, that thick tongue peeking out again.

He wasn’t ready to stop admiring her. He smirked. Reached down. Spanked her again.

“Uh uh…” Stack rumbled, “Turn. I need them eyes.”

She started to move slow, hesitant, and that just made it sweeter. Hair wild again—those combs had long hit the floor—and her face, lawd…her face. Flushed and needy, trembling lip tucked between her teeth, lashes flutterin’ like she was scared to look too long or she’d come undone just off the eye contact.

Good.

He wanted her wrecked.

Marigold turned her head, just like he said. Cheek pressed to the chaise cushion, mouth parted, eyes locked on him like she ain’t even realize how desperate she looked. That moan-stuck expression. Pupils wide. Breath catching. Like he’d done laid her soul bare and she couldn’t gather it back fast enough.

Stack licked his lips again and sank down.

“I said legs wide,” he muttered, voice already thick, eyes dragging down her backside slow.

She parted them a little more.

He smirked.

“There she go.”

That fat little pussy was still leaking for him. All puffy and glistening, twitchin’ like it was waiting on him to come back and make it feel right. He leaned in. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t even breathe. Just let his nose brush her inner thigh first, lips ghosting the heat of her. She gasped. Tilted her head more. Neck long, soft and trembling.

And then—he dove in.

Thick tongue, open mouth, slurp first. Not no gentle lick. No soft taste. Stack feasted. Sucked the whole center of her into his mouth like he was tryna pull the moans straight from the source. His lips sealed around her like a man starvin’—chin buried in the crease, nose pressed firm against that brown ring while his tongue slid in deep, messy, wet.

“Mmmf,” he groaned, grinding his mouth into her, “Goddamn, baby…look at what you feedin’ me.”

He didn’t stop to let her speak. He wasn’t interested in words right now. Not hers. Just her moans. He dragged his tongue up again, wide and slow, then sucked her clit with a filthy, open-mouthed pop. She jerked. Thighs twitched.

“Ahn—Stack…” she whimpered, breath breaking.

“There she go,” he whispered, tongue flicking that button again, slow and heavy, lips swollen from how he’d been devouring, You hear yourself? That’s what this pussy need. Ain’t no prayer gon’ hush that.”

He kissed it. Like it was holy. Then licked it again. Long. Loud. Sloppy. Each lick came with sound—his moans, her gasps, the wet suction of his tongue against that creamy little hole. She was fuckin’ drippin’. Fat drops slid from her down to his beard and he let it coat him. Didn’t wipe a single drop.

He was talkin’ to it now. Real low. Filthy.

“You talk all that shit about sin,” he spoke against her folds, “and here you go…feedin’ a pimpin’ pussy so sweet. You should be ashamed, baby. That’s the Devil’s nectar, ain’t it?”

He kissed it again. Tongue swirling. He licked her open and watched the mess stick to his mouth like syrup.

“You moanin’ now instead of preachin’. Pussy preachin’ louder than you ever could.”

Marigold gasped. Her voice cracked—high, soft.

“Oh my goodness…ohhhh… Stack—please—”

He slurped.

Loud. Dirty. Intentional.

“Say it again,” he mumbled, licking right over her again and again, “Say my name like that. Don’t hold it in now. You already made the offering.”

Her face was a vision—eyes all glossy, lips glistening, jaw slack like her words got tangled up in sensation. She could barely keep her head up. Her body was trembling, her nipples stiff against the chaise, legs shaking from how wide he had her. She peeked at him through lashes, mouth still open, lower lip trembling like it didn’t know how to act.

He chuckled low.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “Look at me.”

She tried.

And what she saw?

His face drenched in her. Tongue peeking out again. Beard glistening. Eyes low and wild like a man mid-revival.

“I got you quiet now,” he said, licking her slow one more time, “That’s what you needed, huh? All that hollerin’ you was doin’? All that carryin’ on ‘bout righteousness?”

Spank.

“Let it go.”

Grip.

“Gon’ let Daddy rectify that shit.”

She whimpered. Her moans turned into pleas, head tilted like she ain’t had the strength no more to resist. Stack leaned in again. Mouth open, lips wrapped tight. He sucked. Sucked that clit until she squealed, until her hips tried to run, until her toes curled and she slapped the damn cushion.

“Stay still,” he growled.

Slap.

“Keep them legs open.”

Grip.

“Let me finish breakin’ you in.”

And then—he licked her again. Deeper. Sloppier. He groaned into it like her taste was a drug and he’d just hit the high.

And this time?

He didn’t stop.

She ain’t know what to do with herself. Still bent like a sinner in the pew when he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over. Slow. Easy. The move made her tits bounce, her breath hitch, and that sweet lil’ gasp spill off her lips like a song she wasn’t ready to sing.

Now she was laid out.

Back on the chaise. Hair wild. Thighs open. That trembling, messy, perfect pussy glistening under the lamplight like a fresh anointing.

And Stack? He got low. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread her thighs wide until her heels balanced on the edge of the cushion. Pussy parted. Pouting. Still soaked from the last go.

He stared.

Smirked.

Then—

He feasted.

Tongue first. Flat. Firm. The first lick made her whole body jerk.

“Ahn—!”

Yeah. That’s what he wanted. He kissed it again, tongue deeper this time. Then again. Then again. Then he got mean with it—slurping, open-mouthed, noisy like he had no shame. Chin coated, lips soaked. He didn’t stop.

Not even when she tried to squirm.

Because now?

He could see her face.

And fuck, that face. Eyes wide and glassy, lips wet, parted in disbelief. Like she ain’t know whether to cry or cum. Every sound she made hit different now. No hiding in the crook of her elbow. No more pressed cheeks or shy gasps.

She had to feel it.

Had to watch it.

And that made her all the more wrecked. Her chest rose fast, her nipples hard, round tits bouncing slightly every time he sucked on that soft lil’ clit. His beard was slick with it now. Chin shining like he’d been baptized in her. Stack groaned low, tongue dipping again, mouth locking around her entrance with filthy precision.

And then—

He felt it.

That sweet little hand reaching out. Her fingers clawed into his scalp, tangled in the slick waves of his hair like she needed something to hold while she lost her mind.

That grip?

Whew.

That grip made his cock throb.

She was moaning now. Whimpering, whispering nonsense like she couldn’t even figure out what was happening to her body. Stack just kept working, tongue relentless, beard rubbing up against her like he was tryna rub the good girl off her skin.

And then he pulled back just a bit. Just enough to talk to it. He licked his lips slow and wide, left that bottom one shining again. Then leaned in so close her clit twitched from the heat of his breath.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue flicking once, twice, licking the words into her. “Repeat after me, baby.”

She blinked. Lips trembled. Stack lifted his head just enough to look her dead in the eyes, still holding her thighs open wide.

“Say—Daddy eat this pussy up.”

She hesitated. Gasped.

Bit her lip.

“I—I…” Her voice was soft. Barely breath. “Daddy eat this…pussy up…”

That shy little whisper?

That did him in. He growled and went right back in. Lips locking tight. Tongue moving like he had something to prove now. Every flick, every slurp, every suck was rougher. Deeper. Slower. Purposeful.

She screamed.

“Stack! Oh my—Stack!”

Her hand fisted tighter in his hair and he let her pull. Let her grind. Let her moan till she sobbed, pussy squelching and shining with each new suck.

He came up for air once—just once—to whisper.

“Yeah you do. You need this. This what that sweet pussy been waitin’ on.”

And then he dove back in like he was tryna take her whole soul with his mouth.

She was done. Wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

And he wasn’t fuckin’ stopping.

She said it.

Whispered it like a secret.

Like a confession.

“Daddy eat this pussy up…”

He damn near came just hearing that come out her mouth.

Sweet. Shy. Sin-drunk.

“Yeah…” he growled against her folds, tongue sliding low, slow, deep, “You got damn right.”

Stack buried his face in her pussy like he planned to never come up again. Hands firm under her thighs, holding her wide, beard soaked, tongue moving like scripture on a Sunday mornin’.

But this?

This was filthy.

“Talkin’ to me now, huh?” he muttered right against her entrance, licking in slow, pulsing circles, “Mouth was runnin’ all that righteous shit and now look at you—slobberin’ all on my fuckin’ tongue.”

Marigold whimpered. Full-body shiver. Hips arched up like her pussy was trying to meet his mouth halfway.

“Nah, baby,” Stack chuckled, licking long and firm up her crease, “Lay back. I got you.”

Then he leaned in real close and did it—

He started talkin’ to the pussy. Low. Wet. Groaned like he was talkin’ to a woman he was tryna tame.

“There she go…lil twitchin’ thing. You like Daddy talkin’ to you, huh?” He slurped her clit like he was sucking mango juice from a split fruit, “That lil’ thump I feel? That heartbeat in this pussy? Mmm. She close.”

Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up again. Her thighs shook. He licked her hard and slow, then sucked her clit deep between his lips with a pop that made her whole body spasm.

“Oh—oh my God—Stack—yesss—uhnnnnnn—”Her voice broke. One leg kicked. She was there.

He didn’t stop.

He locked on and kept goin’. Slurping. Sucking.

Worshipping.

He growled into her folds.

“C’mon then. Let it out. Don’t fight it. Let Daddy taste it.”

He licked in tighter circles now. Deep, rhythmic, slow-fast-slow again. Tongue drawing patterns like he was writing his fuckin’ name.

Her breath caught. Hips bucked. Hand still fisted in his hair, dragging, holding on like she was falling through the damn earth.

And then—

He spoke again.

“You gon’ cum for me, ain’t you? That lil’ pussy need it bad, huh? C’mon, mama. Let Daddy make her cry. Let me hear her talk back.”

Marigold’s mouth dropped open—eyes rolled, breath shattered—

“I’m—oh—oh fuck I’m—”

She came.

Hard.

Body curling, legs trembling, her pussy gushing against his mouth. That creamy release rushed out warm, thick, sweet, and he caught every fuckin’ drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

He groaned like it fed him.

“Nnnhh…there she is,” he moaned into it, “That’s my good girl.”

He kissed her through it. Licked her clean. Sucked her clit until her thighs twitched again. Until she sobbed his name, broken and beautiful, body limp with relief and ruin.

And when he finally pulled back? His face was drenched. Beard glistening. Lips shining. Eyes dark. He licked his bottom lip slow, savoring it like honey.

“Taste like redemption,” he muttered, grinning crooked, “Told you I’d get that pussy.”

And she was still spread. Still trembling. Still breathless.

Half-lidded. Fucked-out. Blessed.

Stack wasn’t finished. Not even close. He stood. And the moment he did, her breath hitched.

Stack loomed above her, thick muscle and confidence wrapped in dark wool and sinful intent. And there it was—pressing against the front of his slacks like it had a pulse of its own. A thick, twitching outline that made her mouth go dry. She couldn’t stop staring. Her knees pressed together on reflex, thighs clenching tight like they could hush the throb blooming between them.

Then came his voice—low, teasing, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside her.

“You wanna free it, baby?”

Her eyes snapped up, wide and nervous. She didn’t answer at first. Just blinked. Like she didn’t know if he was serious. Like she didn’t trust herself to touch what was clearly dangerous.

“Hesitatin’?” he goaded, cocking a brow, “That don’t sound like a woman ready to get her guts rearranged.”

She bit her bottom lip. Hard.

And then…she nodded. Barely. But he caught it. He reached down, unfastening the top of his slacks, unzipping slow, and then stepped closer. He didn’t pull himself out—not yet.

“Do it,” he said, “You brought all this shy heat in here… now act like you want me.”

Her hand trembled as she lifted it, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his briefs beneath. The heat coming off him was obscene. She could already feel the throb through the cotton. Her hand paused there—just resting—until he spoke again.

“Mmh… go ‘head. Bring me out.”

Swallowing hard, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband and eased it down. It sprung out.

God.

Her whole face flushed hot. It was so much. Long and heavy and thick, the color deep and rich and angry-looking. Veins snaked the shaft like roots, pulsing just beneath the skin. It twitched in the air like it had a heartbeat—like it knew it was being looked at. Already slick at the tip, glistening.

She gasped. Actually gasped.

Stack just stood there biting his lip, watching her watch him like it was a damn show. His chest rose slow. Eyes hooded. Lips parted.

“Well?” he drawled, “You gon’ hold it or just stare like it’s the second coming?”

She reached for it.

Her fingers wrapped around him, and even that felt shocking. Heavy in her hand. Warm. Smooth but ridged. He hissed through his teeth the moment she gripped it, and her thighs squeezed tighter at the sound.

“Mmm,” he moaned, “Thaaaat’s it…How that feel, baby?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth was parted, her breath uneven. She was too busy staring at how her hand barely wrapped around it. He reached for her other hand and slid it beneath. Brought it to his balls.

“Both hands,” he whispered, “Yeah…warm lil’ hands. You feel how heavy them nuts is? That’s full, baby. That’s a whole baptism waitin’ to happen.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Because the weight of it in her palms—the twitch of his length, the scent of skin and musk and heat—was too much. She started stroking, slow and unsure. He made a sound deep in his throat, head tipping back, hips shifting just enough to push into her grasp.

“You see how big it is?” he grunted, “You really think you ready for this in them holy holes of yours?”

She couldn’t speak. She just nodded again, helplessly. He took over then—guiding her stroke. Fisting himself with her hands still wrapped there. Making it glide slick and smooth between her palms. She watched as he played with his own tip, thumbing the slick bead leaking out. He brought it to her lips without a word. She opened her mouth without thinking. He smeared it across her tongue. Let her taste it. She blinked up at him—ashamed, stunned, starving. Stack smirked. His dimple carved deep like it knew what kind of devil he was.

Then he swung his length in her face.

Not playfully.

Like a warning.

Like a threat.

It slapped her cheek with a soft, wet smack, the weight of it making her shiver. She gasped again, frozen, lips parted.

“Stroke it,” he ordered, “Nice and slow.”

She did. She obeyed. And he just watched her, biting his lip again, his chest rising, his hand guiding hers, until his hips started to roll with it—gently at first, then a little deeper.

“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rasped, “Look how hard I get for you. You gon’ keep playin’ with it or you gon’ put it where it belong?”

Her breath hitched, “It’s…warm.”

He laughed. Quiet and rough, “Course it is. It’s waitin’ on you.”

She swallowed again. Her eyes trailed down. She already knew where it belonged. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she continued stroking him, his tip gliding in her hand, slick and messy. Her thighs wouldn’t stop clenching. She could feel her own slick now, sticky, heat pooling in her belly like something unholy.

And still—he kept watching.

Waiting.

Ready to ruin her.

“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, eyes trailing down to her lips, “You ain’t ready for this in your mouth.”

The words hit her like a palm to the chest. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Ashamed. Aching. Her lips were parted, trembling a little. She didn’t even realize she’d started leaning forward, mouth open like she was gonna beg. But Stack saw it. Saw all of it.

“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low, amused, wrecked. “So hungry, and still ain’t earned your supper.”

She swallowed thickly, face burning. His dick bobbed in her hand—heavy, twitching, leaking like it was aware of every sinful thing passing between them. Her palm was slick from stroking him, fingers wet with that glossy mess from his tip.

“You still got work to do, baby. But I’ma show you.”

He slid a hand along his own length while she held it, guiding the pressure. He gripped the base and slapped the tip across her cheek again—wet, slow, a soft pap that made her flinch and whimper. It swayed afterward like it was alive, twitching with every beat of his heart. He stepped back, breathing heavy, and dropped into the nearby chaise like a man needing to sit. His thighs parted, one arm thrown over the back lazily while the other gestured for her to follow.

“C’mere. On your knees, right there.”

She crawled forward, still holding him. She felt delirious—like she’d been drugged by desire. Her whole body flushed, nipples tight, core pulsing, her pussy sticky from how worked up she was just from looking at it and the way he ate her up. He leaned back, eyes dark, and his lips gleamed with pussy juice and spit. Half-lidded now. Ravished.

“Pump it slow, baby. Like I showed you.”

She wrapped her hand back around him, and he hissed loud through his teeth.

“Thaaaat’s it. Mmm. Just like that…”

Her hand moved, gentle but firm, up and down. She watched how his length looked in her hand—too big, too thick, veiny and proud and angry-looking. The tip had a deep flush, and it kept drooling like it couldn’t hold back. His skin was satin-warm, but there was a steel weight underneath. Her hand trembled as she stroked—her thumb catching the sensitive underside every time she came up.

“Good girl. That’s how you stroke me.”

Then he started talking filthy.

“Mmm, you feel that weight? That’s a whole Sunday’s worth of sin sittin’ in your hand right now. You strokein’ it like a good little convert…You tryna be saved by the stick, huh?”

Her throat tightened. Her breath came faster.

“Mmph—ahhh…fuuuuck…” His moan broke loose like it slipped past his teeth on accident. Long. Raw. Guttural,“Hhhahhhh—shhhhit…” He bit his bottom lip hard, nostrils flaring. His hips flexed once. His abs tightened. He growled something deep and Southern under his breath, voice low and rough, “Just like that, baby… fuuuuck, yeah…”

She could hear how wet the sounds were now—her hand moving through all that slickness. The mess was obscene. His tip kept swelling, his balls drawn tight now in her other hand. He pulsed so violently in her grip it made her tremble.

“Faster now. That’s it—tighten that grip. Lemme fuck your fist for a second—mmmghh—fuck.” He threw his head back, “Nnnngh—shit. That’s it. That’s it. Keep goin’. Don’t stop now, girl—fuck—”

The sound of her name half-escaped his mouth but died on a moan so raw it made her thighs clench again. His voice cracked with it. Her name had turned into just a sound:

“Mmm—Marigo—fuck—gold—uhhhhhh…”

She’d never heard a man sound like this. Like he was unraveling at the seams. He started breathing through his teeth, fast and sharp. His thighs tensed, the muscles twitching. His chest lifted and fell with every stroke of her hand. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. His lips parted, and he looked down at her like he was ruined.

“You gon’ make me cum, baby…You gon’ make me spill all this in them pretty hands…You gon’ keep pumpin’ like a good girl, or you gon’ stop now and disobey?”

Her hands didn’t stop. Her mouth opened in a shaky gasp. She wanted it. Wanted to see what he looked like when he let go for her.

And she was about to find out.

It happened fast.

One moment, she was stroking him like he taught her—watching the way his body tensed, listening to the filthy praises falling from his lips like gospel—and the next, his whole frame snapped.

“Hhhhnnn—fuck—right there—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He gripped the back of the chaise like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, his arms stretching wide, every muscle flexing like a cord drawn taut. His back arched. Hips jolted. His thighs trembled as he spilled with a broken, desperate groan.

“UHHHH—shhhhit—Marigold—fuck, baby girl—”

She gasped.

Her hand flew to her mouth in pure, wide-eyed shock. It was spurting. Thick and hot. Rope after rope spilling over her fist and wrist. Her skin was painted in it. The first shot startled her—it hit her thumb, thick and sticky. The next slid down between her fingers, warm like molten honey. The way it pulsed out of him, kept pulsing…it was unreal. Her hand never stopped moving, instinctively now, as if guided by his need.

He was twitching. Moaning through it. Loud.

Not quiet grunts, not polite sounds.

“Ahhh—ahhhnn—fuckfuckfuck—mmmghhh—look what you do to me…you see this mess you made?”

His head tipped back. Then it dropped forward again as if the weight of release was too much. His eyes squeezed shut. His brow wrinkled in the middle, lips falling open in a moan so raw it sounded like prayer. He was panting. Rattled. Ripped apart.

She had never seen a man come before.

Not like this.

She’d heard whispered things from the church wives, veiled confessions in kitchens and back pews. But nothing prepared her for this. The way his body moved…the tremble of his thighs, the way his abs clenched, the way his dick jerked in her slick palm, spurting more than she thought possible. The veins down his shaft bulged. His tip flushed nearly purple. It just…kept coming.

She was soaked in him.

His moans…

They weren’t just noises.

They were unholy.

“Uhhhhhh—mmmhh, shit—so warm—that’s it, that’s it—you made me bust like that…like a nasty fuckin’ addict. You feel that mess? That’s from you, girl. Thinkin’ ‘bout that sweet lil’ mouth. That tight lil’ hole. You did that to me…”

She was shaking.

Knees pressing together, breath ragged. Her heart thumped like a drum in a revival tent. Her thighs were soaked now—not with him, but with herself. She was leaking, pulsing around nothing. Vibrating from the inside out.

She kept staring at her hand.

It was coated.

Sticky, messy, oozing down her palm and wrist in strands. Creamy and warm. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t dare move.

Stack opened his eyes.

They were wrecked. Heavy-lidded. Glazed over like he was still coming down. His voice was hoarse but deep when he spoke again.

“You wanna taste?”

Her eyes jerked up to his. She froze.

She didn’t answer.

“Go on. Just a lil’ taste. You earned it.”

She looked back down. Swallowed hard. The heat between her legs pulsed again. Her face was burning. But her hand lifted.

Slow.

Uncertain.

She brought two fingers to her mouth, lips trembling. Her tongue darted out… just a flick. Just enough to sample what was still slick and warm on her skin.

The taste was…startling.

Raw. Salty. Heavy. Not sweet, not bitter—just masculine. Musky. Like the scent of his skin, but deeper. Something earthy and thick. Her eyes fluttered closed for a split second as she took it in.

Stack was watching her.

His mouth twitched into a slow, sinful smirk.

“Mmm…taste good? That’s that stuff that fill your lil’ hole up like a cream fillin’. That’s what you make me do when I think ‘bout you. When I picture you sittin’ on that church bench all high and mighty. That tight dress. That mouth runnin’. You know what I wanna do?” He leaned forward now, breathing still uneven, “I wanna stuff that mouth full so you hum when you pray. Wanna bust again in that sweet lil’ pussy. Feel it spill deep inside. Warm you up from the inside out. Don’t worry… you gon’ feel it soon. In your mouth. In that holy lil’ puss.”

She whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together again. Her stomach turned in knots. She was damn near vibrating—with shock, with shame, with overwhelming desire.

She wanted it.

Wanted him.

All of it.

Even the parts that made her feel like she’d never be clean again. She licked her fingers again—slower this time.

And Stack groaned.

Low. Long. Possessive.

The robe slid soft over her shoulders.

Stack’s fingers tucked it closed with care. One hand lingered at her waist while the other rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Marigold was still trembling a little—body flushed and spent, lips kiss-worn, thighs sticky with arousal and ache.

“You did good f’me tonight,” Stack spoke softly, voice low and warm against the curve of her jaw, “Better than good. You was beautiful.”

She swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye yet.

Stack’s lips brushed her temple, “I know that was a lot. Intense. But you made it through. And you gon’ keep makin’ it through.”

A beat.

“Long as you listen.”

Marigold nodded, shy. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Stack kissed her there—soft and slow—before pulling back and adjusting the robe again like she was something precious. Then he ran a hand down her back, giving her a little pat on the behind.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He opened the door.

And there she was.

Mirabel.

Perched near the end of the hallway, leaning casual against the wall like she’d been waiting to catch him. The lighting cast her face in partial shadow, but not enough to hide the spark of jealousy in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to Marigold—robe-wrapped, cheeks flushed, collarbone still damp with sweat—and then it snapped back to Stack.

She smiled. Tight. Slow.

“Evenin’, Stack,” she said cool, but her eyes were daggers.

“Evenin’,” Stack tossed back just as calm, guiding Marigold past with his hand firm at her waist. He didn’t stop walking. Marigold’s heart pounded harder as they passed, but Stack just leaned down toward her ear once they were beyond reach.

“She mad,” he whispered with a smirk, “Let her be.”

The bathroom was one the girls used—a big space with soft yellow light, lace curtains, and a clawfoot tub full of steaming water already drawn and waiting. Someone must’ve prepared it during the performance. Maybe Cordelia. Maybe Peaches. Stack guided her to the edge of the tub and helped untie her robe, laying it across the bench before helping her in like she was something breakable. The warm water hit her skin, and she gasped softly. Stack knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, one hand lazily skimming the water near her knee.

“I’m gon’ keep takin’ care of you,” he said softly, “Long as you let me.”

Marigold blinked at him, still trying to find footing in her own body. He picked up the soap and a washcloth, worked up a gentle lather, and began to clean her—slow and thorough. Between her breasts. Under her arms. Between her thighs. He never rushed. His hands were skilled, but his touch was almost devotional. And then, just as he was wringing out the cloth, he spoke again.

“You goin’ to church tomorrow?”

She nodded.

Stack leaned in closer. His voice dropped like honey over fire, “Then go with your collar loose.”

Her brows knit.

“No gloves, neither.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in softly, “You wanna wear them stockings, fine. But leave that stiff little jacket off. Let ‘em see you. Let ‘em see that skin glowin’.”

She looked down into the water, heat creeping up her throat. Stack grinned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Let it be known you ain’t hidin’ no more. Not from me. Not from them. Not from yourself.”

A pause.

“Wear somethin’ with some movement,” he added, “Somethin’ that feel good on your skin. Not just somethin’ to be good in.”

Marigold stared into the rippling water, the heat curling between her ribs and down between her legs all over again.

Stack stood and wiped his hands, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Finish soakin’”

He left her with that—wet, warm, soaking in his scent and his commandments, her fingers brushing the steam off her thighs and her heart pounding like a hymn.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm.

Marigold sat still in it, her knees tucked close now, the steam gone but the heat still lingering—beneath her skin, between her legs, in the deep places where Stack’s voice still echoed like a pulse. She didn’t even realize he’d returned to the doorway until she heard the gentle click of the door shutting again. He carried a fresh towel, big, soft, still warm from the line, and he knelt beside the tub without a word.

“Come on, sugar,” he said gently, “Let me get you out this water.”

She stood, legs wobbly, heart even worse. The air felt too cool against her flushed skin. Stack didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. He just wrapped her up and held her there for a moment, hands rubbing slow over her back, the towel soaking in the water beading off her thighs.

“Still tremblin’,” he murmured, “You somethin’ else.”

He dried her in silence—slow, sure strokes. No rush. No shame. He was still half-drunk, but his hands were steady now. Every time she flinched or tried to cover herself, he just shook his head and pulled her hands away.

“You got no reason to hide from me, Miss Goldie.”

Once she was dry, he crossed the room and returned with the same church clothes she’d arrived in—folded neat, the little pearl buttons glinting in the bathroom light.

“Put your arms up,” he said.

She did. Stack dressed her like she was a doll—patient, careful, brushing her curls back from her face once he was done, fastening the buttons she was too dazed to handle herself. He stepped back to look at her once it was all done, nodding slow with his arms crossed like he was admiring something he built with his own two hands.

“You came in lookin’ like the preacher’s wife.” His smile deepened, “Now you look like mine.”

She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.

He held out his hand. She took it.

The walk to the kitchen was quiet. The Blackline had quieted some, the pulse of the music fading into background laughter and the clink of glasses being washed. Late-night was creeping in now. But there was still that magic in the air, that slow drag of honeyed sin and soft perfume. Aunt Pearl stood at the big wooden counter, wiping down mugs. Stack kissed her on the cheek.

“Need a favor, Auntie.”

Pearl glanced between them—between Marigold’s glassy eyes and Stack’s possessive hand at the small of her back—and smiled slow.

“Let me guess. She need a ride?”

“If you don’t mind takin’ her home the long way, quiet-like. Don’t want no preacher poppin’ up with holy water at the back door.”

Pearl smirked, “Ain’t no problem, baby.”

Stack turned to Marigold and took her face in both hands. His thumb stroked just under her lip.

“I got some things comin’ up later in the week,” he spoke, close enough that she felt the rum still warm on his breath, “My lil cousin Sammie comin’ in town from Clarksdale. Throwin’ a lil event here for him. Lot to plan.”

She nodded, trying not to show the disappointment that fluttered through her chest.

“But I can’t wait to see you again.”

He kissed her. Tongue slow, soft, just enough to make her knees buckle again. Just enough to make her whimper and press closer.

He broke it with a soft growl and a smile.

“I’ll have Auntie come get you next time. Make it easy. Safe. That alright?”

She nodded again, more grateful than she could say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her one more time. Slower this time. Possessive. Sweet, “Get home safe.”

She was still floating when Pearl led her out the back. Still tasting him on her lips. Still flushed beneath her clothes. The robe, the bathwater, the whisper of his mouth between her thighs—every part of it clung to her like perfume. She stepped out into the cool night air with a full moon overhead and a feeling she couldn’t name blooming wild behind her ribs.

She had just been claimed. And she didn’t know what would come next…but she knew she wanted more.

The road was quiet at that hour. Streetlamps cast long amber streaks across the windshield of Aunt Pearl’s old Ford, the soft rattle of the engine humming beneath them like a low lullaby. Marigold sat in the passenger seat wrapped in her robe and freshly buttoned-up clothes, thighs still tingling beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers nervously fidgeting in her lap. The scent of cinnamon oil and sweet tobacco clung to the air—Aunt Pearl’s scent. It felt like a balm. For a while, neither of them spoke. The tires hummed beneath them. Houses passed like slow-moving ghosts.

Then Pearl said softly, without even looking, “You alright, baby?”

Marigold blinked. “I…I think so.”

A pause.

Pearl’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, knuckles catching the orange glow of the dashboard, “First time a man look at you like you ain’t never been seen before… whew. That’ll rock your world.”

Marigold’s face flushed, but she smiled. She turned to the window, a quiet laugh caught behind her hand. Pearl gave her a look from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t be shy with me. I know that look. Your lips all bitten, eyes got that glossy glaze to ‘em, cheeks hot as the back of a cast iron stove.”

Marigold let out a bashful giggle.

Pearl softened.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby girl. I was married once. Long time ago. Thought I had it all. A husband who wore a suit to church and shined his shoes every Sunday. But you know what else he did?”

Marigold glanced over, brows lifting.

“He made me feel small. Like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Said my laugh was too loud. My hips too wide. My needs…‘unholy.’”

Pearl gave a scoff that turned into a hum.

“Let that man convince me I was a sin for wantin’ to be touched soft. For wantin’ more. Took me years to shake that lie off.” She looked over now, her eyes steady on Marigold’s, “So let me be clear with you, sugar. You a woman. You got blood in your veins and fire in your belly. Don’t you ever let anybody—preacher or not—make you feel bad for wantin’ to be seen, touched, loved. That don’t make you sinful. That makes you alive.”

Marigold’s eyes stung, her throat catching with something deeper than gratitude. She reached across the seat and took Pearl’s hand, squeezing it tight.

Pearl gave her a wink.

“And while you at it…get that head, let him spoil you, and have yourself a time, baby!”

Marigold burst into laughter, covering her face, shoulders shaking, her heart suddenly light. The car slowed at the curb outside her home. The laughter faded. The quiet crept back in. Marigold stepped out of the car slowly. The night air was still warm, but it carried a different weight now. A solemn hush. The kind that curled around old houses and old habits.

She leaned in the window before Pearl could drive off and whispered, “Thank you.”

Pearl nodded, “Go on, Sister Goldie. Be soft with yourself.”

With one final squeeze of her hand, Pearl drove off into the dark, her red taillights disappearing like slow-dragging fireflies into the quiet night.

Marigold turned to face her house.

The porch was dark. The windows stared back like judgmental eyes. She stepped onto the walkway, every footfall heavy. Each one peeling a layer off. The robe felt tighter now. Her dress stiff. As the front door opened and she stepped inside, the warmth of The Blackline seemed to slip right off her skin. Her church clothes became a yoke again. The buttons became a seal.

Goldie slipped away…and Sister Marigold Baptiste took her place once more. The silence inside her home wasn’t gentle. It was cold and holy and hollow. She walked past the mirror in the hall without looking. Somewhere in the quiet, in the hush between then and now, a line was typed on paper—faint, soft, but resolute.

He didn’t save me. He saw me. And that was enough…

Thursday Morning—Loosened

Marigold stood barefoot on the worn floorboards of her bedroom, toes curling against the rug, a slip clinging to her skin like a hush. The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains in fractured gold, catching dust and memory in its beams. The house was still. Too still. She stood in front of her wardrobe, staring. Her usual church uniforms hung in a neat row—high collars, long sleeves, skirts that swept to the ankle, gloves folded into little nests in their matching hats. Obadiah liked her polished. Liked her dressed like the wife of a man of God should be.

Stiff. Lacquered in piety. Unreachable.

Her fingers drifted toward her usual dress—the navy one with the pearl buttons. But they stopped.

Go to church tomorrow with your collar loose.

Don’t wear gloves.

Stack’s voice, still hoarse with liquor and lust, wrapped around her spine like a binding spell.

She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

Her thighs still trembled with aftershocks. Her hips ached faintly from how wide he’d spread her. Her pussy twitched at the memory of his mouth—hot, open, devouring. The sound he made when he came. That growl. That filthy, guttural praise as he spilled thick and heavy into her hand. She stared at her palm like it had been marked. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he made her feel—worshipped and ruined at the same time. Her lips parted, breath catching. She squeezed her legs together. She still couldn’t believe she had let that man—that gangster—do all that to her. That she had gasped, moaned, begged for more. She, Sister Marigold Baptiste, had opened her legs for Elias Moore and nearly drowned in her own pleasure.

What am I becoming?

The robe slipped off her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Skin flushed. Nipples still taut.

She never thought about sex. Never allowed herself to. Not like this. Obadiah had never undressed her slowly. Never kissed her thighs. Never praised her wetness. Never even called her pretty during the act. Sex was a duty. A quiet, rushed thing. A groan in the dark. He barely removed his shirt. She had seen his penis—briefly. Small, and already soft when he rolled off of her. She had never felt a man hard in her hands. Had never stroked one.

And then Stack…

Lord.

The weight of it. The way it twitched, leaked, pulsed. Veiny. Warm. So long she couldn’t close her fingers around it fully. So thick she had no idea how it would fit inside her. She could still feel it against her stomach, taste the salt of it on her lip from when she brought her fingers to her tongue to taste.

She trembled.

Her heart beat between her legs.

She reached for a blouse. One without the stiff high collar. She left the top few buttons undone. Her neckline open just enough for a breeze. Just enough to feel free.

No gloves.

Her hands were bare. Feminine. Exposed. She pinned her hair up soft instead of slicked back tight. Let a few curls hang. Her lips looked fuller today. Her cheeks glowed. When she looked in the mirror this time…

She saw her.

Goldie.

Not fully, but there. Blooming beneath the layers of shame and satin. Marigold touched the edge of her blouse, breathing deep.

Was it wrong? To feel this good?

Was it unholy to want?

She didn’t have the answer. But her body had already made the choice. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quiet prayer—half apology, half thanks.Then she stepped into her shoes and walked toward the door.

One button looser than she used to.

No gloves.

The church was near-empty. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, slanting across wooden pews and catching on the glint of polished brass. It was the middle of the week—too quiet for comfort, too sacred for secrets. Marigold stepped inside, her gloves absent, collar loose at the throat. She hadn’t dared to add rouge, but her skin still held that post-bath glow, a hush of warmth left behind by hands that had no business touching her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as she made her way past the vestibule.

“Sister Baptiste,” came a voice—crisp, sweet, and dipped in Southern varnish. She turned to see Sister Bernadine rising from a side pew, wiping her palms down the front of her skirt, “You just missed Reverend Obadiah. He arrived early this morning, before sun-up. Said he wanted to have a word with you after his meeting.” Bernadine gave her a curious glance, “Said to tell you personally.”

Marigold’s heart stuttered. A small, polite smile curled on her lips, “Of course. Thank you, Sister.”

She turned toward his office, trying to still her breath.

He knows.

He had to.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for sound to bleed through.

“…it’s already begun,” a deep male voice was saying.

Another voice: “The signs are here, same as the others.”

Obadiah’s voice: low, calm. “She don’t know yet. But we’ll guide her.”

Marigold’s hand paused on the door. Her stomach turned, bile rising to her tongue. She knocked once, just hard enough to interrupt.

Obadiah called, “Come.”

She entered. The room smelled of sandalwood, ink, and something like musty linen. Four men were present— Deacon Braith, Deacon Ellison, Deacon Ross, and Deacon Wells. Their eyes flicked toward her without warmth. On Obadiah’s desk lay an aged black book with a cracked leather spine. Its pages were stained in sepia and shadow, the title embossed faintly in gold. The Book of Pruning. The deacons excused themselves with short nods, brushing past her like a chilling fog. Obadiah did not move. He watched her with his chin propped on one hand, fingers tapping at his mouth.

When the door clicked shut behind the last man, he rose.

“Marigold.” His voice was smooth, but cool, “Come sit.”

She obeyed.

“You’ve had a busy week, I assume?”

She nodded gently, folding her hands in her lap, “Yes, Reverend. I’ve made sure the Wednesday scripture pamphlets were printed and the children’s corner in the chapel was dusted—”

He cut her off, “I wasn’t asking about pamphlets.”

She stiffened.

“I’ve been made aware of a few matters during my absence,” he continued, walking slowly around the desk, eyes never leaving her, “Namely, Evangeline. Her mother and father came to me concerned. Said she’s been slipping in her study, missing youth devotion. Said she’s…distracted.”

Marigold’s throat dried.

“You were entrusted to oversee the young women’s ministry,” he said, now standing just beside her, “It is your duty, as First Lady, to guard their gates. Their minds. Their bodies.”

“Yes, Reverend,” she murmured.

“Tell me, why wasn’t your focus where it should’ve been?”

She opened her mouth—to lie, maybe. To give some excuse. But nothing came out. Just the sound of her own guilt, ticking like a metronome inside her skull. Obadiah turned his back briefly, adjusted the placement of a hymn book on the shelf. Then, as if it were an afterthought, said:

“You won’t be attending the leadership banquet tomorrow.”

Marigold blinked. “But Obadi—Reverend…the event was reserved for First Ladies—”

“It is,” he said, without turning.

Her voice dropped. “Then why—?”

“I’ve extended the invitation to Sister Lillian instead.”

The name cut like glass.

Obadiah turned slowly now, walking back toward her, gaze sharp, “Because your attention is better spent here, at this church. On the youth. On prayer. On watching.” He leaned closer, voice almost tender, “You do believe in purity…don’t you?”

Marigold nodded, but her throat burned. Her blouse collar felt suddenly too loose, like a noose hanging slack. Obadiah’s fingers reached forward, too soft, and buttoned the top of her blouse himself. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. She flinched.

“You rushed from your bed, I imagine?” he asked quietly, “You’re exposed. Immodest.”

She dropped her gaze.

He let out a slow breath, “I’ll let it pass. You’re tired. But we must be careful with tiredness, Marigold. The devil moves fastest through women who are weary.”

His words hung heavy.

And yet, underneath his cold poise, she could see something twitching beneath the surface. A restlessness in the way he adjusted his cuffs. A fire behind his eyes. He was looking at her too long. His nostrils flared slightly, as though searching for scent. She felt like an open book. One he was preparing to underline in red.

“I’ll pray for your clarity,” he said.

Marigold stood heart racing, “Yes, Reverend.”

She left the office with her head down, but her fists clenched. Something inside her was beginning to burn. And far behind her, unseen, Obadiah reached back and laid a hand on The Book of Pruning. His fingers tightened.

The porch creaked beneath Marigold’s heels.

Afternoon light lay heavy across the crooked planks, and the rusted screen door swayed just slightly with the breeze. Paint peeled from the siding in long, flaking strips, and a row of flower pots sat cracked and bone-dry along the railing. The yard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. She adjusted her gloves, hesitated, then knocked. It was Ruth Monroe who answered—thin-lipped and graying, her face drawn tight like the line of her apron. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and her hands were stiff with age and labor. She blinked once, slowly, before recognition set in.

“First Lady Baptiste,” she said, voice clipped, “Didn’t expect no company.”

“I was hopin’ to speak with Evangeline, if she’s home.”

Ruth’s eyes flicked down the road before settling back on Marigold. A pause. Then a stiff nod, “She in her room. Supposed to be readin’ scripture. I won’t stop you.”

The house was dim and quiet. The smell of old starch and yesterday’s cooking clung to the air. Crosses lined the hallway—some metal, some wood, one with a cracked porcelain Jesus. Marigold’s shoes made soft taps on the floor as she passed.

Ruth didn’t follow.

Evangeline’s door was cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in from the open window. Lace curtains danced slow, and somewhere beyond, a mockingbird sang. The scent of faint smoke lingered, tucked behind the sweetness of youth and dust. Marigold knocked gently before pushing the door open. Evangeline sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a faded cotton slip. Her Bible was open in her lap—but a carved-out hollow in the center held a pouch of weed. Her eyes were sharp as glass when she looked up, wide-set and dark like stormwater.

She didn’t rise.

“Didn’t know we had surprise inspections now,” she said dryly.

Marigold stepped inside, softening her voice, “Ain’t here to scold. Just checkin’ on you.”

Evangeline leaned back against the wall, “Sure you are.”

Marigold’s gaze drifted to the bruise on the girl’s arm. Faint, blooming purple beneath warm brown skin. It looked like a grip. Marigold said nothing, but the chill moved through her.

“You’ve been missed,” she offered, “The studies ain’t the same.”

“They never were,” Evangeline said, “Naomi knew that. That’s why she left.”

Marigold stiffened, “You’ve spoken to her?”

Evangeline tilted her head, “Maybe I have. Maybe I ain’t. What difference it make?”

There was something older than eighteen in her tone. A tiredness that hadn’t been earned fairly.

“You should come back,” Marigold said, “Even if it’s just to talk.”

Evangeline smiled bitter, “Talk to who? The sisters who whisper about my skirt length? Or the elders who think weed’s worse than bein’ touched up by your own blood?”

Marigold’s stomach twisted, “That bruise—”

“Don’t worry yourself.”

“I am worried.”

Evangeline held her gaze a second longer, then looked out the window.

“I don’t need pity,” she said, “You ain’t gotta pretend.”

“I’m not pretending. I just…I want to help.”

The silence between them crackled.

Finally, Marigold said, quieter, “If you ever need to talk—my door’s open. You know where I stay.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” Evangeline called out.

Marigold paused.

“Tell the church ladies I’m doin’ just fine,” she said with a crooked smile, “Tell Obadiah too.”

Marigold nodded, but her heart felt like glass cracking. She stepped back into the hallway, past the stiff furniture and the quiet disapproval in Ruth’s eyes.

Door on the knob, Ruth’s voice cut through.

“Tea?”

The teacups trembled slightly in their saucers as Ruth returned with the tray. She set it down on the table with care, though her hands betrayed her—fingers stiff, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Chamomile,” she said quietly, “Calms the heart.”

Marigold nodded, her hands folded politely in her lap. “Thank you, Sister Ruth.”

They sat across from each other, the tea untouched at first. Ruth stared into her cup as if it held answers she didn’t want to name.

“I worry ‘bout my baby,” she said finally, voice catching in her throat.

Marigold glanced toward the hall, “She’s still young. Young women…they test boundaries.”

Ruth’s hand came to her mouth, “Last week, I caught her with a boy. In her room. Pants down. The devil in both their eyes. I—I ain’t never seen her like that.” Her voice broke, “I raised her better.”

Marigold’s expression softened. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny cross in the corner. She placed it gently in Ruth’s hand.

Ruth took it with a whispered thank-you, dabbing her eyes, “I told her daddy. He ain’t say nothin’. Just got quiet. That quiet he get when he ready to act.”

Marigold’s brows lifted, concern blooming, “He put his hands on her?”

Ruth didn’t answer directly. She looked away, swallowing hard, “He say he takin’ it to Obadiah. That’s what he said. Said the church gon’ fix her.”

The words sank into the room like wet cement. Marigold kept her posture composed, but her knuckles were white around the teacup.

“I’ve tried, Sister Marigold. God knows I have. I’ve prayed. Fasted. Tried to bring her back to the Word. She used to be so close with Naomi. I don’t know what changed.”

The shift in Ruth’s voice was subtle, but sharp. A buried grudge resurfacing.

Marigold straightened, “Naomi was a good girl. Spirited, yes. But kind. And smart.”

Ruth’s mouth tightened, “Spirited is one word for it. Wild’s another.”

Marigold blinked, the sting immediate.

Ruth sipped her tea, then sighed, “I’m sorry, but…Naomi was already walkin’ a dangerous path when she left. And your sister—Esther—Lord knows she had her own darkness to wrestle with. That blood runs hot, Sister Marigold. Always has. And now my child’s caught up in it.”

Marigold rose from her chair slowly, “That blood is my blood, Sister Ruth.”

Ruth flinched, but didn’t apologize.

Marigold’s voice was quiet but firm, “Esther may be in a home now, but she is still my sister. And Naomi is still my niece. She stayed with me after everything. When no one else would take her in.”

“She ran off again, didn’t she?” Ruth asked, “Left you, too.”

“That’s between me and God,” Marigold said.

A beat passed. Ruth’s expression faltered.

“I–I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I—I’m just scared, is all.”

Marigold nodded, brushing invisible dust from her gloves, “We all are.” She reached for her purse and paused before leaving, “If Evangeline ever wants to talk…she can come to my home. No judgments. No rules.”

Ruth looked up, eyes shining, “Thank you.”

With a polite nod, Marigold turned to go, her shoes tapping lightly against the wood floor. But something about her posture had changed—shoulders set a little firmer, gaze a little deeper. She was beginning to see it now. The cracks. The blame. The way righteousness could be twisted into something cruel.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the last stretch of sunlight clawing its way through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. A faint tick-tick of the old clock chimes from the mantel in the front parlor, counting down a moment she’s already decided on. Evangeline moves quietly, barefoot on the worn wood floors. Her room door closes behind her with a soundless pull. She’s changed out of her at-home dress into something a little looser, a little freer—soft cotton skirt, button-up shirt tied at the waist, and a pair of borrowed saddle shoes. Lips glossed. Hair fluffed. Her eyes flicker like they’ve been holding back a storm.

She steps carefully past the kitchen doorway.

Inside, Ruth Monroe, hunched at the table, her back to her daughter, a teacup forgotten in her hand. She’s holding something in her other hand—a photograph. The edges are curled from years of drawer dust and sunlight. The image: a toddler in frilly white socks with a wide, gummy smile. Baby Evangeline. Ruth stares at it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Evangeline stops in the hallway—just for a breath. Her eyes soften, guilt threatening to root her feet in place. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step in.

She moves on.

Out the back and into night fall.

The screen door creaks, the sound swallowed by the rising hum of crickets and distant dogs barking in the dark. The porch light flickers once, then steadies. Down the gravel driveway, headlights flash twice.

A car waits at the corner.

Behind the wheel is a broad-shouldered boy with slicked-back hair and a look that says he knows how to lie for fun. In the passenger seat is a girl, maybe twenty, sharp-lined eyeliner and bubblegum lips, smacking gum with the window half-down. She waves Evangeline over like she owns the night. Evangeline grins—crooked, excited, a little scared—and runs. She climbs into the back seat, sliding in with practiced ease, the leather hot against her thighs.

The girl up front twists in her seat, “Took you long enough.”

“Had a visitor,” Evangeline says, breathless.

“You good?”

“Always.”

The car rolls forward slow at first, wheels crunching gravel as it pulls away from the Monroe house. In the rearview mirror, Evangeline sees the porch light still on. Her mother still inside. Her past still burning quietly behind her. Then the car turns the corner. The house disappears. The road stretches on. The music comes up low and dirty—something bluesy and grown. And Evangeline leans back, wind slipping through the open window, eyes wide and wild with the freedom of a girl who knows the night belongs to her.

The back office of The Blackline was dim-lit, heavy with cigar smoke and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald humming low from the gramophone in the corner. Stack stood by the mirror, brushing the dust from his shoulders, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his chest. His gold toothpick glinted as he adjusted the tilt of his fedora. Behind him, Smoke sat in the old leather chair, one leg draped over the other, wrist resting on his knee. He looked tired. The kind of tired that clung behind the eyes even when the body sat still. His undershirt was damp with the heat of the day and he was nursing the stub of a cigar that had long gone out.

Stack caught his twin’s reflection.

“You look like you been rode hard and put up crooked,” he muttered with a grin.

Smoke smirked, slow, “Ain’t slept much.”

Stack glanced over, “Everything straight?”

Smoke nodded once, eyes sharp even in fatigue, “Goods came in this morning. Delia counted it out. Runners are loading the dry cellar now. I’ll handle the rest ‘fore sundown.”

A beat passed.

Then Smoke added, like an afterthought, “Thank God for Aunt Pearl and Minnie. They been holdin’ it down.”

Stack caught that—the weight in his voice. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the small liquor cart and poured himself a splash of bourbon.

“You gon’ be alright while I pick up Sammie?”

“Go ahead.” Smoke exhaled slow, “He’s grown now. Shit’s wild.”

Stack chuckled, “Feels like yesterday he was cryin’ ‘cause we wouldn’t let him hold the shotgun.”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. Then, like a shift in the wind, he asked, “You been seein’ her lately, huh?”

Stack’s hand stilled on the glass, “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb wit’ me.” Smoke tilted his head, “That preacher’s wife.”

Stack leaned back on the desk, licking the bourbon from his bottom lip. His face didn’t give much away—but his voice softened, “Names Marigold.”

Smoke raised a brow, “You helpin’ her or huntin’ her?”

Stack gave a long pause. Then said, “She don’t even know what she is, man.”

Smoke narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting.

“All her life she been told she was a lamb. Quiet. Meek. Somethin’ to protect. Somethin’ to keep holy. But she ain’t just that.” Stack swirled the liquor in his glass, “She a woman. And ain’t nothin’ shameful about that.”

Smoke let the words hang, chewing on them like tobacco, “You like her.”

Stack didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.

“Ain’t got a name for it yet.” He looked toward the half-cracked window where the sunlight broke in like gold ribbon, “But when she talk, I listen. When she cry, I feel it. When she’s quiet…I still hear her.”

Smoke whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep for you.”

“She different.”

A silence settled between them.

Smoke leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders never left, “You sure you know what you doin’? Messin’ wit’ a church woman. You don’t think she’ll break the moment she sees all this?” He gestured around to the room, to the whole world they’d built.

Stack shook his head slowly, “She already cracked, Smoke. I’m just showin’ her what’s on the other side of it.”

Smoke blew out a breath, finally standing. He grabbed his coat from the hook and tossed it over one shoulder.

“Just don’t fall too hard, Stack. Been through enough trouble.”

“Too late.”

Smoke stopped in the doorway and looked back, lips parting like he might say something more—something truer. But instead, he clapped his brother on the back once and said, “Go get the boy. I’ll have the drinks cold and the girls ready.”

Stack grinned.

“You better. He ain’t never had his dick wet or his soul stirred.”

Smoke chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, “Lord help him.”

And just like that, the office went quiet again except for the soft scratch of Ella on the record player, and the faint echo of two lives breaking in ways neither of them could name yet.

Stack stepped out of his office like a sermon in silk.

Midnight-blue three-piece suit hugging him just right, pocket square crisp, gold rings glinting with every flick of his fingers. His toothpick shifted as he adjusted the collar of his shirt—an ivory number with subtle embroidery so fine you’d have to squint to catch it. His shoes? Black leather gators. He walked like they knew how much they cost. On his way out, he caught sight of Violet at the end of the hall—pressed sweet against Smoke, who was acting downright boyish for a man with a .38 tucked beneath his waistband. Smoke had her giggling in a soft dress, hands roaming her hips, his voice low and teasing in her ear. He cupped her ass like it was his second home.

Stack paused with a smirk.

“Lord, y’all actin’ like I ain’t got places to be.”

Violet laughed, bashful, swatting Smoke’s hand away.

Smoke just grinned, eyes never leaving her.

“And you actin’ like you ain’t jealous.”

Stack strolled closer, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Violet’s forehead.

“Nah, I’m proud. She finally got him to smile like he ain’t made of brick and bourbon.”

Smoke snorted. Violet blushed deeper.

Stack adjusted his cuffs and headed into the main lounge.

The Blackline—Main Floor

The air was velvet-thick with cigarette haze and the scent of clove oil and red lipstick.

Cordelia, draped in deep plum and dark pearls, stood near the bar snapping orders with a voice that cracked like a whip.

“Move them tables. No, not there—by the stage. Odessa! If that hem ain’t fixed by showtime I swear—”

Stack passed her with a grin and a low whistle.

“Don’t work too hard, Boss Lady.”

“Don’t flirt too loud, Player.”

He blew her a kiss. She caught it midair and slapped it into her bra with a wink. Near the front, Liza June sat cross-legged on the velvet fainting couch, her eyes deep in a tarot spread laid across the lap of Clarissa. The air around them shimmered with mystery and slow jazz.

Stack gave Liza a nod.

She nodded back without looking up.

“You walkin’ into somethin’ new today.”

“Ain’t I always?” Stack replied, slipping on his overcoat.

West Ninth Street—“Little Harlem”

Early evening. Golden hour. A Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, glides through the bustle like a crown through a crowd. Stack’s hand rests out the window, rings catching light. Street corners hum with life—boys shining shoes, girls laughing in curls and cotton, a brass band warming up down the block.

West Ninth is pulsing.

Men in brimmed hats gather outside the barbershop, talking baseball and bootleg money. Church mothers step out of bakeries clutching warm pies and giving Stack a knowing side-eye. Teenage boys pause their dice game to admire his car. Stack pulls up outside a Black-owned shoe shop—Thompson & Sons Fine Footwear—where the windows glisten with patent leathers and hand-stitched brogues. A wooden sign out front reads:

EST. 1917 – STYLE THAT SPEAKS

He steps out slow, coat sliding off one shoulder, giving the full view of his suit. The wind catches the edge of his jacket. A girl walking by mutters:

“Mmm, that man look like trouble in cologne.”

Inside, the shop smells like cedar, leather polish, and confidence. Mr. Thompson, an elder with sharp eyes and a sharper press, greets him:

“Moore.”

“Thompson.”

Stack tries on a pair of custom blood-red two-tone lace-ups, alligator trim. He lifts his leg, admires the gleam.

“You makin’ devils dance in these, old man. Only the bold can wear red without bleedin’ in it.”

Stack pays in full. No haggling. He tips extra for the young boy who buffs the heel until it gleams like a moonlit spill. Outside again, he slides into the driver’s seat, lets the door thud shut, and lights a cigar. His reflection smirks at him in the rearview.

The man’s ready. He ain’t just Stack. He’s legacy. Swagger. Lust in linen. Blues in human form.

And tonight?

He’s got Preacher Boy Sammie to pick up.

Union Station—Little Rock, Arkansas—4:16 PM

The train hissed into the station with a long, dusty breath, its steel spine gleaming beneath the fall sun. Smoke curled up from the engine stack like an omen softened by rhythm and routine. A gust of wind kicked through the terminal, lifting loose flyers from the bulletin board and tousling the feather in Stack’s wide-brimmed hat.

Elias “Stack” Moore leaned against his Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, immaculate as always. The paint caught the light like obsidian, fresh from a hand-rubbed polish. His shoes—custom-made from stingray leather, jet-black with a silver tip—gleamed as he crossed one ankle over the other. He flicked open his pocket watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and waited with a crooked grin, knowing he looked like sin with credit.

And then he saw him.

Sammie Moore.

Twenty years old and walking like the world had finally called him by name. Fresh off the train in a three-piece tan suit—clean, but not flashy—with a golden pocket square folded just right and a worn leather guitar case slung over his shoulder like a badge of freedom. His hair was brushed back in smooth waves, sides taper-clean. His eyes, wide and alert, took in the city like a hymn he’d only ever heard about.

Sammie Moore was Delta-born, raised in the tight drawl of wooden churches and crooked porch swings, but he carried the sharp edge of something bigger now. A college man. A first-generation miracle.

He stepped down onto the platform, his gold fraternity pin shining on his lapel: Alpha Phi Alpha—the first of its kind, newly founded by Black scholars hungry for more. And Sammie? He was studying Education and Black History, determined to uplift what his people had been taught to forget. His scholarship came from a local Black benevolent society—one his mother petitioned after his father refused to sign the papers.

He spotted Stack instantly.

“Cousin Stack!” Sammie grinned, wide and sunlit.

“Preacher Boy!” Stack stepped forward, his voice slick and gravel-laced. “Look at you, all grown and full of scholar. What they feedin’ y’all in them lecture halls? Confidence?”

They embraced hard and quick, two firm slaps on the back, the kind that say I see you, I’m proud, I got you always.

“You look like Harlem itself,” Sammie said, eyeing Stack’s tailored fit and toothpick grin.

Stack cocked a brow. “And you look like you just graduated from Sunday school for grown men. C’mon, lemme show you what Little Harlem got cookin’.”

They walked toward the Cadillac, Sammie whistling low. “This yours?”

“She purrs when I talk sweet and bite back when I don’t. Just how I like ’em.”

Sammie chuckled as they slid into the car. The doors shut with a deep, luxurious clunk. Windows down, wind in their collars, blues on the radio—somewhere between Bessie Smith and the devil humming in a bottle.

As they eased into traffic, Sammie caught the glint of sunlight off glass across the street. He turned to look.

There she was.

Evangeline Monroe.

Standing just outside a beauty supply shop, laughing with two other girls. Her dress was butter-yellow with white gloves and shiny black oxfords. Hair done in a neat bob, curls perfect. Her profile hit like a note not written down—delicate, sharp, unforgettable.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes tracking her every movement, “Who that sweet thing?”

Stack didn’t look. Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like a preacher who knew exactly when to pause before the punchline.

“There’s plenty of sweet at the House,” Stack said, “You’ll see.”

Sammie glanced once more, then leaned back into the seat, guitar case pressed against his knee. But the look on his face stayed soft. Curious. Marked.

Stack didn’t say more.

And somewhere behind them, Evangeline turned—as if she’d felt eyes on her—but the car was already gone.

The front doors of The Blackline eased open with a slow, sensual creak—like even the hinges knew how to tease—and the air inside wrapped around Sammie like velvet dipped in molasses and smoke.

He stepped inside behind Stack, and the world bloomed.

The camera didn’t cut. It glided. Swooped. Curved around their shoulders and swept left, past the smoky lamps and satin-draped booths, past the heavy perfume of sin and sugar, and the sound of laughter layered like jazz chords—sharp, low, then rising.

Stack paused in the doorway, Sammie just a step behind him, holding tight to that leather-strapped guitar.

The scene was alive.

🎺 Cue jazz horns and shuffling feet 🎺

Liza June was halfway through a Tarot reading near the fireplace—her golden curls bouncing as she laid a card down with a hiss of silk and whispered, “Ooh baby, Death reversed. That mean change is comin’.” The woman across from her gasped like she’d caught the Holy Ghost. Someone refilled their glasses with blackberry wine.

The camera panned right.

Cordelia, decked in a sheer black robe with nothing underneath but thigh straps and a mouth full of threat, barked orders to a new girl about fixing her eyeliner, then turned, heels clicking, and caught sight of the boys.

“Well well well,” she drawled, one brow cocked, “The Moore boys walkin’ in like Sunday salvation. And who’s the cutie?”

Sammie blushed under the lights. His tie already felt too tight.

Cordelia sauntered up and cupped his face gently with one manicured hand. “Ain’t you handsome. You legal, baby?”

“Just turned,” Sammie mumbled.

“Mm. That’s the best flavor.” She winked and moved on, hips rolling like music.

The camera kept moving. Girls passed by—some half-dressed in beaded bustiers and garter belts, others wrapped in lace robes or chemises that barely skimmed their thighs. A group of them waved from a nearby booth, one licking whipped cream off her finger.

“Happy birthday, sugar!” one called.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes darting, lips parted, “This place real?”

Stack just grinned, proud and unbothered, an arm slung heavy across his cousin’s shoulders, “You in The Blackline now,” he said, “I built it from sin and good taste. You see liquor, you drink it. You see sugar, you taste it. You see pussy, you praise it.”

They passed a hallway where flickering wall lamps threw long shadows. The camera dipped low as someone dashed past in stockings and laughter. Somewhere deep in the back, the slow clatter of dice and the moan of a piano spilled through a cracked door.

From the kitchen, the smell hit like a memory Sammie hadn’t earned—fried catfish, hot water cornbread, sweet peach glaze, and something that smelled like his mama’s poundcake but naughtier.

He inhaled sharply, “Goddamn.”

Stack chuckled, “That be Aunt Pearl. Don’t let her fool you—she got more spice in that pot than Jesus had disciples.”

And then—

Violet.

A burst of soft curls. A squeal of joy.

“Sammie!” she called out, hurrying over in a warm, wine-colored dress that hugged her soft curves. She wrapped him up in a hug that was all hips and sunshine.

Sammie grinned wide, surprised but clearly overjoyed.

“I ain’t seen you in—”

“Too long,” Violet finished. “Look at you! Little cousin all grown up and dressed better than a Pullman porter.”

“Look at you! You jumped wit’ Ghost and got fine doing it.”

She laughed, and Stack tilted his head, “Don’t give him all your sugar, Vi. Leave some for Smoke.”

She smacked his arm.

Stack turned to Sammie again, clapping a hand on his back, “I brought you here for a reason,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, like a promise being carved. “We gon’ celebrate your transition. Blues, bourbon, and if you play your cards right…” He smirked, “You gon’ get your tip wet for the first time.”

Sammie blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Don’t act brand new.” Stack leaned in, voice thick with mischief. “You grown now. I’m givin’ you the keys to the kingdom.”

The camera followed as they crossed through the den, past sultry shadows and swaying silhouettes. Upstairs, Stack showed him a room set aside—modest, but nice. Clean sheets. A basin. A mirror edged in gold. Sammie dropped his duffel on the bed but kept the guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his ribs.

“You still playin’?” Stack asked.

Sammie nodded, stroking the neck gently. “Every damn day.”

Stack gave a small nod, respect in his eyes, “You should. That axe got blood on it.”

Sammie looked down at the guitar—the one he and Smoke had passed to him when he was just thirteen. Their father’s.

He swallowed hard.

Stack tapped the doorframe.

“Come on, Preacher Boy. Night’s young. Let’s get you blessed proper.”

And as they stepped out, the camera stayed behind for just a moment, lingering on the guitar’s worn fretboard.

The hallway behind the bar was narrow, lined with old liquor crates and dusty red curtains that swayed for no reason at all. Just past a locked door—key slid from Stack’s boot—was The Secret Room. The one with no windows. The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled like old velvet, aged whiskey, tobacco, and secrets. Thick crimson drapes hung heavy over the walls. A pull-down screen waited, curled like a tongue. In the corner, the projector sat humming quietly like it had a memory of its own. Stack lit a cigar and let the door click shut behind them. Sammie followed, carrying his guitar case, eyes darting across the room like he’d stumbled into a place grown folks didn’t talk about out loud. He tried to play it cool—but he was twenty. Curious. Alert.

And perched in the far armchair, legs spread and boots dusty, sat Rattlesnake Joe—grinning like a man who knew too much.

“Evenin’, Pretty-Slick,” Joe said with a gold-toothed grin, lifting a brown burlap sack from beside him, “Brought you some heat. And a lil’ moon blessin’ for them tender girls o’ yours.”

Stack took the sack. Set it on the sideboard beside a bottle of Bama bourbon and a stack of steel canisters.

“Let’s see what you got,” he said, voice smooth but watchful.

Joe leaned back, tipping his hat toward Sammie, “You the one he was talkin’ about? Birthday boy?”

Sammie gave a polite nod, “Yessir.”

“Well, well,” Joe chuckled, “You in for one hell of a sanctified education, son.”

Sammie squinted, “What’s a stag film anyway?”

Stack turned slowly, lips twitching around his cigar. He walked over, draped one arm around Sammie’s shoulder, and pulled him in, “It’s like church,” he said low. “Only instead o’ shoutin’, they screamin’ your name.”

Joe hooted.

“Shit, that’s good! Write that down, Pretty-Slick!”

Stack ignored him, lifting a canister off the stack. He showed it to Sammie—Reel #14: Pussy on the Phonograph—smudged label, faint red kiss mark near the edge.

“This here?” he said, handing it to Sammie like it was scripture, “A woman touchin’ herself while her own blues record spins. You ever seen a woman make herself cry with her own voice?”

Sammie flushed. Swallowed, “No sir.”

Stack smiled faintly, then clicked the projector into place.

The machine began to whir.

Joe tossed over a leather pouch of herbs—“that’s for Cordelia’s tea, and the girls’ knees,” he muttered—and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Stack watched the reel come to life, light flickering on the screen as grainy, black-and-white heat filled the room.

The figure on screen moaned. Slowly. With rhythm.

Sammie’s mouth parted. He leaned forward, guitar case still between his legs.

Joe lit up, “See that right there? That ain’t no actress. That’s a real woman. She ain’t performin’. She rememberin’. That’s what make the reel worth a damn.”

Stack nodded, still watching.

“You listen to the breath. That lil’ hitch when her fingers dip lower? That ain’t no script. That’s memory. That’s ache.”

He looked at Sammie.

“You ever had a girl touch herself to you before?”

Sammie blinked. Eyes flicked back to the screen.

Stack laughed soft, low, “Didn’t think so. But you will. Maybe sooner than you think.”

The moaning on screen grew louder. The woman’s thighs trembled. The record player needle skipped.

Joe wiped his eyes with a kerchief, “Goddamn that’s art,” he whispered.

Sammie shifted in his seat, “So…these get shown here?”

“Only for folk who know the password,” Stack said, reaching for another reel, “We call it Midnight Sermon. You sit in one of these velvet chairs, light a cigar, and let truth flicker ‘til it stick to your ribs.”

Joe pulled a flask from his boot. “I ever tell y’all about the cursed reel I found down in Plaquemine? Swear to God, the folk on it kept lookin’ at the camera like they was watchin’ me—”

“Tell it later, Joe,” Stack muttered, “Let the boy finish his first viewing.”

The screen glowed.

The moans got real.

And Sammie, breath caught in his chest, clutched the neck of the old Moore guitar—the one Smoke and Stack had given him years ago, their father’s—like it was the only holy thing left in the room.

West Ninth Street, Little Rock

The sun glared low, syrup-thick and lazy, as Stack’s flashy green and cream roadster rolled smooth down West Ninth. The chrome caught the day just right—gleaming like fresh silver, purring like a panther. Folks on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did when Elias “Stack” Moore pulled up. He parked clean in front of Del’s Shine Parlor, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His suit was pressed to perfection, tie knotted sharp at the throat. A gold toothpick rode lazy in the corner of his mouth. He turned his head just enough to speak.

“Stay here, lil cousin. I’m just makin’ a drop. Won’t be long.”

Sammie, sitting passenger, nodded, his fingers absently tracing the neck of the old guitar that lay in the backseat, strapped in like a relic. Stack stepped out and closed the door with the kind of swagger that didn’t need announcing. He moved like he owned the whole block. The gold handle of the Shine Parlor door caught the sun just before it swung closed behind him. Inside, Del’s was dim and cool, smelling of leather polish, cigar smoke, and the faintest trace of musk perfume. Delphina—the owner—sat behind the long, high counter, legs crossed, counting bills in a ruby-red slip and silk robe. Brass spit buckets glinted near old barber chairs. A phonograph spun a scratchy jazz tune in the corner. And in the back, behind a velvet curtain, murmurs from the men laying bets rolled low like thunder.

Stack tipped his hat, “Got somethin’ warm for your drop box.”

Del didn’t look up, “You always do.”

Outside, Sammie cracked the window and leaned back, watching the bustle on West Ninth through dark lashes.

Then he saw her.

Again.

Evangeline Monroe.

Same girl from earlier. Same dress—butter-yellow, soft and spring-sweet, like pound cake cooling on the sill. White gloves tugged tight to the wrist. Shiny black oxfords catching light with every step. Her hair was a flawless bob, curled under like she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She walked with two other girls, laughing about something only they knew—but when she paused to lick at the edge of a vanilla cone, Sammie forgot to breathe.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

He climbed out of the car, smoothing his slacks with one hand and checking his breath with the other. The collar of his dress shirt was popped open, no tie, sleeves rolled. His fraternity pin gleamed at his lapel—Kappa Alpha Psi, recently founded, and he wore it proud. Sammie adjusted his stance, made sure his posture said: charming, not desperate.

“Miss?”

Evangeline turned. Lips still close to that ice cream. Eyes sliding over him, then back down the cone. No smile yet. Just that curious arch in her brow.

“Twice in one day?” she said coolly, “You followin’ me now?”

Sammie chuckled, a low, warm sound, “I think it’s the other way around. You keep appearing like sunshine.”

That got the ghost of a grin. She licked slow, once, eyes on his face, “You a poet or just full of it?”

He stepped closer, “Little bit of both.”

Evangeline didn’t move. Her two friends stood off to the side, whispering, giggling behind cupped hands. One elbowed the other and whispered he’s cute, but Evangeline ignored them.

Sammie glanced down, bashful but still bold, “You from around here?”

“Born and half-raised.”

“You ever heard of The Blackline?”

That name made her eyes flicker. Not wide-eyed, not shocked—just…knowing. Like she’d heard stories behind closed doors. She leaned on one hip.

“Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”

“I’m Sammie Moore.” He held out a hand, “Stack’s blood. Smoke’s too. I just got in.”

Evangeline didn’t take his hand. She licked the ice cream again, then said, “You a Moore? That explains the mouth.”

He laughed, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” she said, one brow lifted.

“Well…maybe you like a little danger.”

“You maybe ain’t as smooth as you think.”

He leaned close enough for her to catch a breath of his cologne—citrus, vanilla, something boyish and clean. A college man’s scent.

Then he whispered, low like temptation, like something you weren’t supposed to repeat unless you meant it, “Three slow. Two fast. Then say: Velvet Devotion.”

That made her pause. The corner of her lip twitched, “Velvet Devotion, huh?”

Sammie nodded once, “Gets you through the front. Tomorrow. What happens after…depends on how bold you feel.”

Evangeline’s lips curved slow, “You got the tongue for a preacher.”

Sammie grinned, “Maybe I just been sinnin’ better.”

Her friends hooted behind her. One of them asked, “You gon’ invite us too, Vangie?”

Evangeline glanced back at them, then looked Sammie up and down.

“If I come…I bringin’ company.”

Sammie nodded, “Long as y’all come lookin’ this good, I ain’t got no complaints.”

She tilted her head, “What if we don’t come lookin’ good? What if we come lookin’ dangerous?”

He smirked, “Then you’ll fit right in.”

From the parlor door, Stack stepped out just in time to see the last of that smile exchanged. He raised a brow but said nothing—just tapped the side of his pocket where his cigar case sat and headed back to the car.

“C’mon, Romeo. Time to get you ready for your rites.”

Sammie nodded at Evangeline, tipped an imaginary hat, “I’ll see you soon.”

She turned without answering, hips swaying like she knew she had him.

Because she did.

THE BLACKLINE – NIGHT – WEST NINTH STREET

The night air hung low, sweet with magnolia and sin.

Stack Moore leaned against his coupe, slow-smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked sharp as a straight razor—slacks pressed, suspenders hugging his shoulders, white tank gleaming under the streetlight. His hat sat tilted just enough to show off the glint in his eye. A quiet smirk curled the corner of his mouth like he was always halfway to trouble. Behind him, The Blackline was alive, low brass and blues seeping through the walls, laughter floating past velvet curtains. A shadow moved across the stained-glass window just as Sammie disappeared inside, guitar case in hand, wide-eyed and grinning.

Stack took a drag.

Then he heard it.

Polished footsteps.

Church leather.

Turning his head just slightly, Stack watched as a black Studebaker slid to a clean stop across the street, engine purring like judgment withheld.

The driver’s door creaked open.

Out stepped Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, tall and rigid in his navy wool suit. Crisp. Sanctified. A silver pocket watch chain glinted against his vest. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, then shut the door like it had sinned. Sister Lillian exited next, already halfway up the church steps, her Bible pressed tight to her chest. She didn’t look back. Obadiah paused to speak with an older Deacon Josiah at the gate—just murmured blessings and leadership pleasantries—but his eyes…his eyes were locked on Stack.

Stack didn’t move.

Just blew a stream of smoke toward the stars.

Then, with a cocky flick of his chin and a smile that could skin a preacher alive, he spoke, “Evenin’, Rev.”

Obadiah’s jaw twitched.

He offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding once like a man humoring a snake.

“Mr. Moore. How you be?”

They stood there in silence for half a breath too long. The street hummed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lights from The Blackline pulsed behind Stack like a neon halo of temptation. Stack tilted his head, studying Obadiah like a man sizing up an old rival at a poker table.

“Can’t complain. Got a full house tonight. Blues, bourbon, and bad intentions.”

He grinned, “Gearing up for a weekend of sinnin’, you could say.”

Obadiah’s smile flattened. His hands folded at his waist, the way one might withhold a curse behind a hymn.

“The women in my congregation…they don’t protest no more.” He paused,“Figured there ain’t no use preaching to a hell den.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from Stack’s chest—genuine, easy, but edged like a switchblade.

“That’s real kind of you, Reverend. Makin’ room for the damned.”

Obadiah’s smirk returned, but now it was bitter. He turned as if to leave, but Stack’s voice cut the silence like a crack of gunfire in an old Western.

“How’s your preacher wife doing? What’s her name…uhh…” He tapped a finger to his temple, mocking thought, “Slippin’ my mind.”

Obadiah froze. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, “Marigold.”

“Ahh, yeah.” Stack snaps fingers, “Marigold. First Lady.” Stack leaned off the car now, real casual. Took another puff. Let the smoke drift slow from his nostrils as he stepped closer, boots clicking like spurs on sacred ground. He tilted his head slightly, “That ain’t who you showed up with though.”

Obadiah stiffened.

Stack could see the vein twitch in his temple. Could feel the fury coiling beneath that collar like a serpent under holy linen. But Obadiah’s voice came calm, trained, weaponized.

“My wife is a busy woman. Teaches purity. Leads young girls to righteousness. She’s an example…of what a Lady of God ought to be.”

Stack just smiled.

He didn’t say a word about how Marigold moaned when he tongued her from behind, face buried deep, nose pressed to her crack like he was trying to breathe in her sin. Didn’t mention how she trembled when he bent her over and spread her knees wide, pussy glistening and twitching like it was begging to be fed on. Didn’t speak on how her breath hitched when he whispered “Good girl” against her throat, voice thick and hungry, or how she begged—begged—for him to spank the holy right outta her, crying out every time his palm met her ass, soaking his lap like a filthy little church slut.

Nope.

Stack didn’t say a word.

He just flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath a polished heel, and turned back toward The Blackline, “You have a good night now, Reverend.” He paused, smirking over his shoulder, “Oh—and can you keep that bell tolling to a minimum? You spookin’ my girls.”

The hallway pulsed like a drumline made of perfume and heat. Laughter spilled from behind the thick velvet curtain, mingling with the sound of Lucille Bogan’s last growl echoing through The Blackline like she left her spirit behind to fuck in her place.

Stack had his arm wrapped around Marigold’s waist, fingers splayed low and intentional across her hip. He walked slow, lazy, like a man drunk on good music and bad behavior, tugging her along like she was his prize and his possession all at once.

His lips were on her neck again, wet and hot, dragging up to the spot just under her jaw where she’d moaned his real name less than an hour ago.

“Lucille always did like a low room,” he whispered against her skin, “Say the air feel heavier, make her voice sit deeper in the cooch. Told me that once…after I poured her a drink in the back room, summer of ’28.” He grinned, nosing into her skin, “Kissed me soon as I brought her that drink. Slid her tongue in like she’d been waitin’ all night to spend it.”

Marigold’s heart pinched.

The hallway narrowed. Her robe clung damp to her thighs. She could still feel his tongue between her legs—the ache of it, the sweet bruised soreness he’d left inside her. But now he was talking about other mouths. Other women. Other nights.

His palm slid down. Grabbed a handful of her ass.

She gasped.

“I ain’t ever liked that woman in a dress, but damn she can sing,” he muttered low, right in her ear, “She sing like she fuck—loud, raw, full of teeth.”

Marigold’s stomach flipped. There was a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize—sharp, hot, bitter at the edges. It sat just beneath her ribs, coiled like a belt pulled too tight.

Jealousy.

It wasn’t holy, but it was alive.

They entered the private lounge through a beaded curtain so thick it rattled like bones in a bag. The heat hit first—soft and thick, touched with sweat and rose oil. The room was velvet dark, lined in oxblood and plum. Satin couches curved around low tables stacked with half-melted candles, fruit trays, ashtrays, and bottles that dripped sweat down their necks. Lucille Bogan sat in the center like a queen who’d fucked her way to the throne. Her thighs were spread in a satin halter gown, glitter still clinging to her chest. She was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and wearing a crooked grin that had broken a hundred men and at least two women that very week.

“Look who the dog done dragged up from between some thighs,” she crooned when she saw Stack. Her voice was smoke and dirty promise, dipped in molasses, “You still talkin’ sweet to ‘em, Mr. Magic Stick?”

Marigold stiffened.

Stack smirked.

Behind Lucille sprawled her girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona. All three were thick in the hips, tits spilling, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted dark like devils at a revival. Faye had one shoe off. Trixie was barefoot and flashing her pasties. Ramona had her leg slung over the arm of a velvet chair, her cleavage deep enough to drown in.

“Ooooh weee,” Ramona purred when she laid eyes on Stack. “Look at them lips. Got the kind of mouth make a girl see stars and the Lord.”

“I bet they soft too,” Trixie said, leaning forward, “Soft like silk on a sore tit.”

Faye laughed, drunk and delighted, “He got the kind of mouth make you forget what day it is. I wanna sit on it just to find out how deep it go.”

Lucille howled, “Y’all leave that boy alone! He just got done eatin’. Can’t you tell by the glow on his skin?”

Marigold froze.

Her glow.

Her cheeks burned. Her hands tightened around the wine glass that Peaches had handed her when they stepped in —unasked, unexpected, just thrust into her hand like she needed something to hold other than shame. She stood toward the back of the room, wrapped in Stack’s robe, her curls pinned up messily, damp with sweat and post-orgasm glow. Her lips were bare. Her feet were bare. She didn’t belong here, and everyone could feel it. She watched as Ramona straddled Stack’s thigh for a second, just being nasty, rolling her hips slow while Faye hooted and Trixie clapped.

Stack grinned. Didn’t stop her right away. That tightness in Marigold’s chest twisted again. He finally tapped Ramona’s thigh and leaned back, laughing.

“Y’all wild tonight,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table.

“Wild?” Ramona licked her lips, “Baby, we just gettin’ started. You tryna start church or confession?”

That’s when Faye clocked Marigold.

“Who’s that?” she slurred, nodding toward the shadows, “You brought a lamb to the slaughter, Stack?”

Stack glanced back—spotted Marigold still hovering, stiff and quiet in her robe. He stood and said it calm. Straight.

“That’s Goldie.”

A pause.

Then Lula’s voice slid out from one of the corners like mischief in silk, “Y’all ain’t ready.” She grinned, tipping her wine glass, “That’s the preacher’s wife.”

Gasps. Whoops. Cackles.

Ramona’s mouth fell open.

Faye clutched her chest. Trixie screamed with laughter, “Well damn! Baby got saved and backslid in the same night!” Lucille sipped her drink and said, “Mmm. Praise be.” Marigold’s ears rang. The robe felt tighter. Her skin buzzed with humiliation. Stack moved back to her side. Slipped a hand around her waist. Spoke just to her now.

“They don’t mean no harm, baby.”

Marigold didn’t answer. She sipped her wine, jaw set, heat crawling up her neck like shame wrapped in silk.

Stack spoke low and hot against her jaw, “Mm. You jealous, church girl?”

She don’t answer—eyes cut away like she tryna pretend she ain’t, but that little pout say otherwise.

He chuckles, darker now, “Don’t do that…Don’t act like I ain’t just had you moanin’ through that pillow like it was gospel. Had you callin’ my name like it saved you.” He leans in, lips ghostin’ her ear, voice rich and mean-smooth, “Ain’t a damn thing Ramona could do for me. That lil’ loose beaver? That thing so stretched it don’t even blink no more.”

He grins when she stifles a gasp—embarrassed, maybe turned on. Both.

Stack whispers filthier, slow, “But you?” He hums, low and sinful, “You got that fat, tight coochie with the kind of grip that make a man rethink his whole lifestyle. Sweet… soft…messy.”

He licks his lips like he can still taste her, “Still got your scent on my mustache. Smell like sugar.” His hand brushed the hem of his robe on her thigh, “Could’ve stayed in that room all night, tongue deep in your pussy, suckin’ you ‘til you begged me to stop—then beggin’ me not to.”

He lets the words drip down her neck like honey, “Don’t stand here tryna act shy now. You ain’t just fucked me, baby. You fed me.” His tongue clicks, “Ain’t no bird in here ever gone do me like you did.”

Cordelia watched from a chaise—didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Peaches clocked the whole thing, slow sippin’ her drink, quiet and knowing. And in the center of it all, Lucille raised her glass and purred.

“To the preacher’s wife.”

The girls howled.

Marigold didn’t raise her glass. Too shaky to hold it steady.

But Stack?

He kissed her temple, right there in front of everyone.

“To Goldie.”

The girls didn’t stop after the toast. If anything, Lucille’s declaration lit a new fire under their asses. Faye was already making a lap of the room with the whiskey bottle, pouring straight into mouths like communion. Ramona threw one leg over the arm of Stack’s chair again, this time leaning so close he could smell the peach liquor on her breath.

“So you really Mr. Magic Stick, huh?” she purred, eyes sliding down his frame, “That mean what I think it mean?”

Lucille barked out a laugh from her corner, “It mean that boy carryin’ a whole slab in them pants.” She looked Marigold dead in the eye, grinning crooked and filthy, “You felt it yet, baby? That beef?”

Marigold nearly choked on her wine. Her hand jerked slightly.

Lucille didn’t miss a beat.

“Or you still tight like a communion cup?”

Cackles. More laughing. Ramona practically doubled over.

Marigold’s face burned. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but the ache between them betrayed her. Because she could still feel it. Stack’s thick fingers stretching her, curling up and stroking until she screamed his name like a psalm rewritten. She tried to look away. But Stack…he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He reached for her again, real calm and pulled her back into his side.

“Chill out on Goldie,” he said, low and smooth, looking at Lucille, not angry, but serious enough that the air shifted.

The girls backed off just a little, not with guilt, but with the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit a nerve. But Stack…Stack turned back to Marigold like the room didn’t even exist.

His lips brushed her ear, “You okay?”

She nodded, stiff.

He stroked her waist with his thumb—slow, warm, grounding—then dipped his head to speak low, close, the rum in his breath licking her jaw.

“They don’t matter.” Another stroke, “Ain’t none of ‘em tasted you tonight.”

She shivered.

He chuckled under his breath. His hand moved lower. She felt it first at her hip. Then her thigh. Then…higher. His fingers crept beneath the hem of her robe, slow as sin. He watched her body while he did it. Watched the way she froze, the way her lips parted, the way her lashes trembled. His hand slipped between her legs. She gasped, soft and helpless. He found her still wet. Still open. Still aching.

“Mmm,” he whispered, tongue grazing her earlobe, “You feel that? That’s how good you taste. Still leakin’ for me.”

She pressed her thighs together, breath hitched, eyes flicking up to the room—terrified someone saw. But they hadn’t. Faye was now leaning against the piano, trying to light a cigarette upside down. Ramona had moved on to flirting with Cordelia, licking her lips and tracing a finger down her arm. Cordelia smirked slow, seductive, her lashes low, clearly entertained. But not untouched. Not untouched at all.

Peaches stood across the room, watching with a stillness too heavy for the wine in her hand. Her eyes lingered on Cordelia a second too long. And when Ramona whispered something in Cordelia’s ear and Cordelia laughed, tilting her head just enough to flirt back. Peaches looked down into her glass like it said something she didn’t want to read. And meanwhile, back in the chair, Marigold sat perched on the edge of sin and secrecy. Stack’s fingers were slow. Teasing. Just sliding along her slit, not pushing in, just petting. His voice was a dark lullaby in her ear.

“I could make you cum in this room, right now,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Just let you ride my fingers till you soak this seat. Make you whimper all holy and hushlike, and they wouldn’t know whether to praise you or punish you.”

She trembled.

Her hand gripped his thigh hard and she felt it then.

His bulge.

Thick. Hard. Pressed against the inside of his slacks. She could feel it throbbing beneath her hand, begging for release.

And the best part?

She wanted it.

Even with Lucille laughing. Even with Faye drunk. Even with Ramona trying to seduce Cordelia and Peaches staring like she wanted to throw a drink. Marigold wanted him to pull her onto his lap and feed it to her like communion. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God to stop the pulse between her legs. Stack pulled her down without asking. One firm tug and Marigold was planted full in his lap, thighs parted around his, her robe still barely hiding anything from the rising temperature in the room. She let out the softest gasp, wine sloshing in her glass as her ass settled directly on top of his bulge.

Lord have mercy…

She could feel every inch of him. Hot. Heavy. Hard as a damn pipe beneath her. Her thighs instinctively clenched, but that only made it worse. Stack leaned back in the plush velvet chair, one arm draped low on her waist, the other nursing his drink—some deep brown rum with heat like woodsmoke. His breath smelled sweet and dangerous.

And he was drunk now.

Not slurring. Not stumbling. Just loose-limbed, voice thick, lips glossy, eyes heavy-lidded and full of sin. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and hummed low, the sound vibrating against her collarbone.

“Mmm. That ass feel like a prayer answered, Goldie.” Another sip, “So damn soft…I swear I could die right here between your cheeks and not even ask why.”

She squirmed.

The fabric between them soaked with heat. His dick throbbed against her, and she gripped her glass tighter, trying to stay calm, to stay present, to not melt in front of all these people. Lucille’s girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona—had taken to the center of the room now, hips swaying, tipsy and barefoot, performing a slow, sensual dance to a new track Lucille had put on. The record crackled with low horns and thick bass—something slow and sticky that made folks clap and laugh and yell encouragement as they moved. The room had filled out more. High rollers now. A tall, dark-skinned man with diamond cufflinks and a silk scarf strolled in through the back curtain. He was flanked by two women—one of them none other than Odessa in a cream lace gown, lips painted like sin, cigarette in hand. She tossed her curls and smiled when she spotted Stack.

“You done turned this lounge into a juke brothel,” she teased.

The man behind her? That was Langston Duvall, one of the most infamous Black Stag film directors in the South. Folks said he could make anybody a star…if you were bold enough. But Marigold was too caught up in the man behind her. Stack nuzzled into her neck again, his voice dropping into a filthy hush only she could hear.

“You feel that?” He rocked his hips slow. Up. Just enough, “That’s all you. Got my dick hard and heavy and beggin’. You sittin’ on a problem, baby.”

She bit her lip, “Stop,” she whispered, heat flushing up her throat.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You don’t want me to stop.”

His hand slid back down to her hip, strong fingers stroking slow circles into her side.

“How you think it’s gon feel once I slide up in you, Miss Goldie?”

Her breath hitched. He kissed her neck again, voice thick with liquor and filth.

“You think that sweet lil’ pussy can take all this dick?”

A pause.

“Or you think I’ma have to stuff it in slow…make you cry a lil’ bit…break you in proper?”

Marigold whimpered.

“Elias—” she whispered, scandalized.

He groaned softly at the sound of his real name coming from her mouth again.

“Say it again,” he rasped, grinding up once more.

She shook her head, curls falling loose from the combs. Her thighs trembled. Her robe loosened just slightly. Across the room, Ramona had slithered up next to Cordelia, whispering in her ear while tracing the line of her arm with a painted fingernail. Cordelia didn’t move—just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a smirk that wasn’t quite rejection. But it wasn’t acceptance either. From across the room, Peaches watched. She didn’t say a word. She just sipped slow from her wine and looked at Cordelia like maybe, just maybe…

Marigold was trembling. Not from cold. Not from nerves. But from the weight of him pressed beneath her, from the slow, steady, merciless filth pouring from his mouth like it was scripture. Stack had her in his lap like she was built for it. His hand gripped her waist, guiding every subtle grind, every twitch of his hips, every bounce that made his hard length throb right against her bare center.

“You feel so fuckin’ good sittin’ on me like this,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, drunk and raw, lips dragging across her throat, “Soft ass…warm lil’ pussy. I swear I can feel the steam comin’ off you.”

Marigold bit her lip hard.

Her leg started bouncing—slow at first, then harder— as if her body was begging for a release her mind was too shy to name.

Stack noticed. Of course he did. He grinned against her skin.

“That leg don’t lie, baby.” He slid his palm down her thigh, then back up again, gripping the meat of it with one big hand, “That mean you ready for somethin’. Ready for me to lift this robe, spit on that lil’ clit, and eat you all over again.”

She whimpered.

Hands gripped the arms of the velvet chair like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth. And then—He adjusted himself. Slow. Deliberate. Tilted his hips up, ground his bulge against her with a soft hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m so hard it hurt.” He rocked again, “You doin’ that. All that tight lil’ heat rubbin’ against me. Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you tasted.” He brought his hand to her jaw. Turned her face slightly, “Sweet and messy. Like rum and God’s mistake.”

Marigold couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Her breath came in shaky little pulls. Her lips were slick. Her skin was dewy. Her thighs were trembling so bad it felt like her bones might rattle.

Stack leaned in again, right against her ear now, “I can still taste you,” he growled, “On my tongue. In the rum. In the back of my throat. Pussy that good don’t disappear.”

She gasps. Bites her lip again. Shakes her head, mouthing stop even though she doesn’t want him to.

He laughs, low and lazy, “Mmm. You pretty when you beggin’ without beggin’.”

His hands slid lower again, and she could feel it—the way his dick twitched beneath her like it was ready to break out, demand entry, claim the rest of what he hadn’t already conquered. And then—He shifted again. His voice changed. Lower. More urgent.

“C’mon,” he said into her ear, like he was asking her to run off to war, “I need you in my mouth again.”

He stood up with her in his arms before she could answer. Cradled her like something soft and sinful. Walked straight past Lucille and her girls, past Cordelia, past Peaches, past the high rollers, past the eyes.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t ask.

Just carried his preacher’s wife out the velvet lounge like a man who’d already been to heaven and wanted another bite.

They moved like smoke through silk.

Stack didn’t put her down—not once. His arms wrapped firm around Marigold’s waist, her thighs draped over his forearm, her robe hanging loose now, one comb slipping free from her curls with each step. The hallway behind the lounge narrowed into darkness and hush. No more music. No more laughter. Just the faint creak of wood beneath his boots and the way her breath caught every time he squeezed her tighter.

The walls changed here. No longer velvet red. Now black, with gold-painted edges and soft sconces that flickered like candlelight. It smelled like tobacco and perfume and pine floors. A hidden hallway inside the beating heart of The Blackline—one only certain girls and certain men had seen. And at the end of it, a single lacquered door.

Stack kicked it open.

Inside, it was warm, dim, private. A small room with no windows. A low couch. A velvet chaise. Hooks on the wall for hanging clothes and ropes. And at the center, a tall, wide chair—almost like a throne—carved from dark wood, plush and deep with an ottoman in front.

He called it the initiation room.

Because this is where he trained them. Broke them in. Showed them how to be touched right. How to be wanted. How to open without apology. He set her down slow, eyes already dark with liquor and lust, his slacks heavy at the groin, the outline of his dick thick, long, straining against the fabric. Marigold adjusted her robe on instinct, tugging it tighter across her chest. Stack watched her. Silent. Heat pouring from him in waves. Then—lazy, slouched—he took the center chair, legs wide, dick heavy between his thighs. His hand reached to stroke the thick length through his pants, slow.

“You know what this is, right?” he asked, voice low, smoky, “This where new girls get broken in.”

Marigold blinked at him, “What?”

“You a new girl tonight, ain’t you?” he said, grinning now, “Ain’t that how you actin’? All shy and sweet. All tight and unclaimed. That robe don’t fool me. That pussy still mine.”

She shifted in place, heart racing, thighs pressed together, “I—don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean…” he said, leaning forward, “tonight you just a little thing walkin’ in off the street. Lookin’ to be initiated. We don’t fuck on first meetin’. We just… introduce your pussy to my mouth.”

Marigold flushed hard.

She shook her head, took a step back, “Stack—”

He groaned loud, frustrated, hand still stroking his dick through the fabric.

“Lord, you still shy?” His hand gripped the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, “You sittin’ on my face less than an hour ago, squirtin’ on my tongue and cryin’ my name like and now you actin’ brand new?”

Her eyes dropped to his lap—and froze.

The bulge in his pants was obscene. Long. Wide. So hard it curved slightly to the left beneath the fabric, pushing against the zipper like it wanted out. His thighs were spread just wide enough to make it worse,

Stack saw where she was lookin’. Smirked.

“Yeah. You lookin’ at it now.”

She flinched.

He stood up.

The room felt smaller suddenly. His height, his weight, the pressure of him. He curled two fingers, beckoning.

“C’mere.”

Marigold didn’t move.

He stepped forward.

“C’mere, Goldie.”

Still nothing. Then, in a flash, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her over his lap. She gasped, caught off guard, and suddenly she was bent over his knee, robe hiked, thighs bare, her ass warm in the low light.

“You wanna act like you ain’t hear me? Like you some brat?” he muttered, hand grazing her ass, “Then I’ma treat you like one.”

POP.

The first slap landed firm.

She yelped.

POP.

The second—harder.

“You don’t talk back.”

POP.

“You don’t tell me to stop talkin’ nasty when you like it.”

POP.

“You know how I know?” He slid his hand between her thighs, pressed two fingers to the mess between her legs, “’Cause this pussy still wet, still leakin’, still beggin’.”

She sobbed into her arm. Not from pain. But from overwhelm.

“Stack—please—”

He rubbed her clit once, slow, right over the hood. Then smacked her ass again.

“You wanna act like a hireling? Then obey.”

Her body arched. Her thighs trembled. She moaned, soft, high, like something sacred had come loose in her throat. He leaned down close, lips to her ear.

“You gon’ be a good girl for me now?”

She nodded, breathless.

He rubbed her again, slower this time. Warm circles. Fingers slick.

“Say it.”

“I’ll be good,” she whispered.

“Say you’ll obey.”

She swallowed. Gasped. Let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll obey.”

He kissed her spine. Smirked against her skin.

“That’s more like it.”

Marigold stood motionless, spine straight, heart slamming in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her robe clung to her skin, warm and damp from nerves and arousal, her lips parted in a soft pant. Behind her, Stack lit a match with one hand, cigar between his lips, watching her in silence through the flare of flame. The smoke curled slow.

“You nervous?” he asked low, voice rough like crushed velvet dragged over gravel.

Marigold nodded, throat tight.

Stack exhaled, slow and hot, “Good.”

He stepped closer, and the smell of him wrapped around her—rum, sweat, and whatever spell she was under that made her knees feel like sugar. His voice dropped again, almost tender, almost cruel, “Strip for me, baby.”

Her fingers trembled. But she obeyed.

The robe slid down her shoulders like a sigh. Stack watched her every move like he was starving. When she stood trembling and bare beneath the low light, he stepped forward again.

“Turn around,” he said, “Let me see what I came for.”

She turned, slow. Back to him. Bent over, shy. The curves of her ass framed the shadows like a painting. Thick. Plush. The kind of softness that promised comfort and ruin. The little thatch of hair between her thighs peeked out from behind, soft and natural, untouched. Even her ass had a dusting of hair—Stack’s eyes glazed, lips parted, dimples deepening with a twitch of awe.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, “That’s beautiful.”

She whimpered.

“Spread it.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark. Just…asked. Smooth. Confident. Heavy. Her hand reached back, slow. Nervous. She spread one cheek. And Stack groaned. Low and filthy, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby vanity like he needed to brace himself.

“Look at that sweet little fuckin’ hole,” he said, voice thick, eyes glued to the split, “So soft…so warm…like it pulsin’ for me already.” He chuckled, “Look at you shakin’. You like that?”

She nodded.

“You need to hear how nasty I get when I’m in love with a pussy like yours?” His laugh was gravel, “Down,” he commanded gently. “On all fours. Spread wide.”

She moved—like a puppet string pulled her hips down. Elbows on the rug. Hips cocked. She arched. Obeyed. Her thighs shook as she parted them, wide and low, dripping and glistening. Stack dropped to his knees behind her with awe, cigar tossed aside, hands gripping her thighs just to feel how warm and soft her skin was. His head tilted, admiring the creamy slick gathering at the center of her pussy like dew. Her lips were puffy. Dark with blood flow. And wet—soaked.

“Look at this sweet fuckin’ thing. Leakin’ already, baby,” he whispered, almost like prayer, “She twitchin’. Can’t even wait her turn.”

He dragged one thumb through the slick, watching it glisten in the low light. Marigold whimpered. Her head dropped forward, face hot. She couldn’t meet his gaze if she tried—too undone already.

Stack leaned close, lips brushing her inner thigh, “You wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded. Weak.

“You creamy?” he asked, licking the crease slowly, “Mmm. You are.” He sucked on her inner thigh, hands spreading her wide, eyes locked on her dripping pussy like it held scripture. His voice rasped like sandpaper coated in syrup, “She openin’ up for me, sayin’ Stack come taste. Stack come break me off. Stack come ruin me slow.”

Marigold moaned. He didn’t touch her with his mouth yet. Just hovered. Breathed on her. Talked to it.

“Look at them lips. Soft little folds. All that pink under all that brown…fuck. That’s art. That’s heaven. I could tongue kiss you ‘til the sun burn out.”

He finally looked at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark, jaw flexing. His mouth glistened from the slick he’d smeared with his thumb across her skin. His hair was a little messy, that left side part falling forward now. His gold tooth flashed when he smirked.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, “You gon’ do just fine. I got you, girl.”

She trembled. He lowered again, hands gripping her ass like they belonged there, like he paid for them. He leaned in, lips parting, breath hot.

And when he finally licked—she nearly screamed.

He kissed her once. Just above the slit. Lips soft. Reverent. Then—One long lick. Thick tongue dragging slow and heavy up her folds like he was trying to taste her whole life. From her weeping entrance to the shy rise of her clit, Stack lapped like he was licking honey off his knuckles. Marigold gasped, full-body shiver rippling from her spine to her toes.

“Mmm.” Stack hummed.

Low. Deep. The sound vibrated right against her pussy like a second tongue.

He licked again, “Mmm.”

The hum came slower this time. A breath through his nose, an exhale through his throat, like he was worshipping. Like her pussy was something divine and he was singing to it.

Lick.

“Mmm.”

Every single stroke of his tongue left her wetter. Creamier. Shakier.

“Keep still,” he murmured against her folds, voice sticky and ruined, “You don’t run from what’s holy.”

Another lick. This one messier. Longer. His nose dragged through her curls, and his tongue stayed flat, savoring the way she leaked for him. Her thighs trembled.

“Mmm.”

Marigold moaned into the crook of her elbow, eyes glassy, face flushed. Her whole body was vibrating—hunger and fear and fire wrapped up in one trembling package of please don’t stop. She was slick down her thighs now. Her nipples stiffened so hard they ached. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed, twitching with each lick, each breath, each hum.

And then—he pulled back.

Stack sat up slow, like he was high off it. Eyes heavy-lidded. Lips glossy. Breath uneven. His big hand slid over his mouth but didn’t wipe anything away—he pressed that wet tongue to the corner of his mouth like he was tasting what lingered. He licked his lips, slow and wide, the kind of lick that started from the corner and dragged across—glossy, syrup-thick, leaving his lower lip shining. His tongue was big. Wide and full, pink and strong like it had been built to taste only pussy. It hung in the corner of his mouth for a moment, heavy with saliva, damn near dripping.

He looked wrecked.

“Fffuck, baby…” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, “Look at this. Just look.”

His hands slid to her ass, spreading her again. Tilting his head. His lip curled when he saw the fresh drip stringing from her slit to her inner thigh.

“She twitchin’. Look at that pretty lil hole flexin’ like she beggin’ me to come back.” He popped her ass once with a soft thud, “You missin’ me already?”

Another thump. Then a grip. Hard.

“Don’t run. You hear me?” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You fuckin’ beautiful. Look at you. Back dimples, sweet fat lips, lil brown ring peekin’ out like a kiss. You made for this.”

She couldn’t answer. She was panting. Shaking. Her pussy so wet it squelched when she shifted slightly. Her elbows were trembling from holding herself up. Her chest was flushed, nipples taut, her mouth slack. She felt like she was outside herself—somewhere hovering, waiting to fall apart under his voice alone.

Stack stared like he was painting her in his mind.

His lip curled. He bit it. Grinned. Spanked her again just to watch the jiggle. His handprint bloomed hot and red across her ass. Then—He thumped her once more and sighed, eyes rolling back like a man on the edge.

“Go on,” he said, voice deep as thunder but velvet smooth, “Bend over the chaise.”

His tone changed.

Roleplay resumed.

Like he was the man in charge of breaking her in.

“Put them hands flat. Arch that back. Spread them legs. Don’t make me say it twice.”

She moved like a whisper. Silken, shy. The chaise groaned as she leaned over it, hands braced. Her thighs parted. Her pussy still slick. Still open. And Stack just stood behind her for a moment, rubbing his hand down his beard, that thick tongue peeking out again.

He wasn’t ready to stop admiring her. He smirked. Reached down. Spanked her again.

“Uh uh…” Stack rumbled, “Turn. I need them eyes.”

She started to move slow, hesitant, and that just made it sweeter. Hair wild again—those combs had long hit the floor—and her face, lawd…her face. Flushed and needy, trembling lip tucked between her teeth, lashes flutterin’ like she was scared to look too long or she’d come undone just off the eye contact.

Good.

He wanted her wrecked.

Marigold turned her head, just like he said. Cheek pressed to the chaise cushion, mouth parted, eyes locked on him like she ain’t even realize how desperate she looked. That moan-stuck expression. Pupils wide. Breath catching. Like he’d done laid her soul bare and she couldn’t gather it back fast enough.

Stack licked his lips again and sank down.

“I said legs wide,” he muttered, voice already thick, eyes dragging down her backside slow.

She parted them a little more.

He smirked.

“There she go.”

That fat little pussy was still leaking for him. All puffy and glistening, twitchin’ like it was waiting on him to come back and make it feel right. He leaned in. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t even breathe. Just let his nose brush her inner thigh first, lips ghosting the heat of her. She gasped. Tilted her head more. Neck long, soft and trembling.

And then—he dove in.

Thick tongue, open mouth, slurp first. Not no gentle lick. No soft taste. Stack feasted. Sucked the whole center of her into his mouth like he was tryna pull the moans straight from the source. His lips sealed around her like a man starvin’—chin buried in the crease, nose pressed firm against that brown ring while his tongue slid in deep, messy, wet.

“Mmmf,” he groaned, grinding his mouth into her, “Goddamn, baby…look at what you feedin’ me.”

He didn’t stop to let her speak. He wasn’t interested in words right now. Not hers. Just her moans. He dragged his tongue up again, wide and slow, then sucked her clit with a filthy, open-mouthed pop. She jerked. Thighs twitched.

“Ahn—Stack…” she whimpered, breath breaking.

“There she go,” he whispered, tongue flicking that button again, slow and heavy, lips swollen from how he’d been devouring, You hear yourself? That’s what this pussy need. Ain’t no prayer gon’ hush that.”

He kissed it. Like it was holy. Then licked it again. Long. Loud. Sloppy. Each lick came with sound—his moans, her gasps, the wet suction of his tongue against that creamy little hole. She was fuckin’ drippin’. Fat drops slid from her down to his beard and he let it coat him. Didn’t wipe a single drop.

He was talkin’ to it now. Real low. Filthy.

“You talk all that shit about sin,” he spoke against her folds, “and here you go…feedin’ a pimpin’ pussy so sweet. You should be ashamed, baby. That’s the Devil’s nectar, ain’t it?”

He kissed it again. Tongue swirling. He licked her open and watched the mess stick to his mouth like syrup.

“You moanin’ now instead of preachin’. Pussy preachin’ louder than you ever could.”

Marigold gasped. Her voice cracked—high, soft.

“Oh my goodness…ohhhh… Stack—please—”

He slurped.

Loud. Dirty. Intentional.

“Say it again,” he mumbled, licking right over her again and again, “Say my name like that. Don’t hold it in now. You already made the offering.”

Her face was a vision—eyes all glossy, lips glistening, jaw slack like her words got tangled up in sensation. She could barely keep her head up. Her body was trembling, her nipples stiff against the chaise, legs shaking from how wide he had her. She peeked at him through lashes, mouth still open, lower lip trembling like it didn’t know how to act.

He chuckled low.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “Look at me.”

She tried.

And what she saw?

His face drenched in her. Tongue peeking out again. Beard glistening. Eyes low and wild like a man mid-revival.

“I got you quiet now,” he said, licking her slow one more time, “That’s what you needed, huh? All that hollerin’ you was doin’? All that carryin’ on ‘bout righteousness?”

Spank.

“Let it go.”

Grip.

“Gon’ let Daddy rectify that shit.”

She whimpered. Her moans turned into pleas, head tilted like she ain’t had the strength no more to resist. Stack leaned in again. Mouth open, lips wrapped tight. He sucked. Sucked that clit until she squealed, until her hips tried to run, until her toes curled and she slapped the damn cushion.

“Stay still,” he growled.

Slap.

“Keep them legs open.”

Grip.

“Let me finish breakin’ you in.”

And then—he licked her again. Deeper. Sloppier. He groaned into it like her taste was a drug and he’d just hit the high.

And this time?

He didn’t stop.

She ain’t know what to do with herself. Still bent like a sinner in the pew when he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over. Slow. Easy. The move made her tits bounce, her breath hitch, and that sweet lil’ gasp spill off her lips like a song she wasn’t ready to sing.

Now she was laid out.

Back on the chaise. Hair wild. Thighs open. That trembling, messy, perfect pussy glistening under the lamplight like a fresh anointing.

And Stack? He got low. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread her thighs wide until her heels balanced on the edge of the cushion. Pussy parted. Pouting. Still soaked from the last go.

He stared.

Smirked.

Then—

He feasted.

Tongue first. Flat. Firm. The first lick made her whole body jerk.

“Ahn—!”

Yeah. That’s what he wanted. He kissed it again, tongue deeper this time. Then again. Then again. Then he got mean with it—slurping, open-mouthed, noisy like he had no shame. Chin coated, lips soaked. He didn’t stop.

Not even when she tried to squirm.

Because now?

He could see her face.

And fuck, that face. Eyes wide and glassy, lips wet, parted in disbelief. Like she ain’t know whether to cry or cum. Every sound she made hit different now. No hiding in the crook of her elbow. No more pressed cheeks or shy gasps.

She had to feel it.

Had to watch it.

And that made her all the more wrecked. Her chest rose fast, her nipples hard, round tits bouncing slightly every time he sucked on that soft lil’ clit. His beard was slick with it now. Chin shining like he’d been baptized in her. Stack groaned low, tongue dipping again, mouth locking around her entrance with filthy precision.

And then—

He felt it.

That sweet little hand reaching out. Her fingers clawed into his scalp, tangled in the slick waves of his hair like she needed something to hold while she lost her mind.

That grip?

Whew.

That grip made his cock throb.

She was moaning now. Whimpering, whispering nonsense like she couldn’t even figure out what was happening to her body. Stack just kept working, tongue relentless, beard rubbing up against her like he was tryna rub the good girl off her skin.

And then he pulled back just a bit. Just enough to talk to it. He licked his lips slow and wide, left that bottom one shining again. Then leaned in so close her clit twitched from the heat of his breath.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue flicking once, twice, licking the words into her. “Repeat after me, baby.”

She blinked. Lips trembled. Stack lifted his head just enough to look her dead in the eyes, still holding her thighs open wide.

“Say—Daddy eat this pussy up.”

She hesitated. Gasped.

Bit her lip.

“I—I…” Her voice was soft. Barely breath. “Daddy eat this…pussy up…”

That shy little whisper?

That did him in. He growled and went right back in. Lips locking tight. Tongue moving like he had something to prove now. Every flick, every slurp, every suck was rougher. Deeper. Slower. Purposeful.

She screamed.

“Stack! Oh my—Stack!”

Her hand fisted tighter in his hair and he let her pull. Let her grind. Let her moan till she sobbed, pussy squelching and shining with each new suck.

He came up for air once—just once—to whisper.

“Yeah you do. You need this. This what that sweet pussy been waitin’ on.”

And then he dove back in like he was tryna take her whole soul with his mouth.

She was done. Wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

And he wasn’t fuckin’ stopping.

She said it.

Whispered it like a secret.

Like a confession.

“Daddy eat this pussy up…”

He damn near came just hearing that come out her mouth.

Sweet. Shy. Sin-drunk.

“Yeah…” he growled against her folds, tongue sliding low, slow, deep, “You got damn right.”

Stack buried his face in her pussy like he planned to never come up again. Hands firm under her thighs, holding her wide, beard soaked, tongue moving like scripture on a Sunday mornin’.

But this?

This was filthy.

“Talkin’ to me now, huh?” he muttered right against her entrance, licking in slow, pulsing circles, “Mouth was runnin’ all that righteous shit and now look at you—slobberin’ all on my fuckin’ tongue.”

Marigold whimpered. Full-body shiver. Hips arched up like her pussy was trying to meet his mouth halfway.

“Nah, baby,” Stack chuckled, licking long and firm up her crease, “Lay back. I got you.”

Then he leaned in real close and did it—

He started talkin’ to the pussy. Low. Wet. Groaned like he was talkin’ to a woman he was tryna tame.

“There she go…lil twitchin’ thing. You like Daddy talkin’ to you, huh?” He slurped her clit like he was sucking mango juice from a split fruit, “That lil’ thump I feel? That heartbeat in this pussy? Mmm. She close.”

Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up again. Her thighs shook. He licked her hard and slow, then sucked her clit deep between his lips with a pop that made her whole body spasm.

“Oh—oh my God—Stack—yesss—uhnnnnnn—”Her voice broke. One leg kicked. She was there.

He didn’t stop.

He locked on and kept goin’. Slurping. Sucking.

Worshipping.

He growled into her folds.

“C’mon then. Let it out. Don’t fight it. Let Daddy taste it.”

He licked in tighter circles now. Deep, rhythmic, slow-fast-slow again. Tongue drawing patterns like he was writing his fuckin’ name.

Her breath caught. Hips bucked. Hand still fisted in his hair, dragging, holding on like she was falling through the damn earth.

And then—

He spoke again.

“You gon’ cum for me, ain’t you? That lil’ pussy need it bad, huh? C’mon, mama. Let Daddy make her cry. Let me hear her talk back.”

Marigold’s mouth dropped open—eyes rolled, breath shattered—

“I’m—oh—oh fuck I’m—”

She came.

Hard.

Body curling, legs trembling, her pussy gushing against his mouth. That creamy release rushed out warm, thick, sweet, and he caught every fuckin’ drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

He groaned like it fed him.

“Nnnhh…there she is,” he moaned into it, “That’s my good girl.”

He kissed her through it. Licked her clean. Sucked her clit until her thighs twitched again. Until she sobbed his name, broken and beautiful, body limp with relief and ruin.

And when he finally pulled back? His face was drenched. Beard glistening. Lips shining. Eyes dark. He licked his bottom lip slow, savoring it like honey.

“Taste like redemption,” he muttered, grinning crooked, “Told you I’d get that pussy.”

And she was still spread. Still trembling. Still breathless.

Half-lidded. Fucked-out. Blessed.

Stack wasn’t finished. Not even close. He stood. And the moment he did, her breath hitched.

Stack loomed above her, thick muscle and confidence wrapped in dark wool and sinful intent. And there it was—pressing against the front of his slacks like it had a pulse of its own. A thick, twitching outline that made her mouth go dry. She couldn’t stop staring. Her knees pressed together on reflex, thighs clenching tight like they could hush the throb blooming between them.

Then came his voice—low, teasing, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside her.

“You wanna free it, baby?”

Her eyes snapped up, wide and nervous. She didn’t answer at first. Just blinked. Like she didn’t know if he was serious. Like she didn’t trust herself to touch what was clearly dangerous.

“Hesitatin’?” he goaded, cocking a brow, “That don’t sound like a woman ready to get her guts rearranged.”

She bit her bottom lip. Hard.

And then…she nodded. Barely. But he caught it. He reached down, unfastening the top of his slacks, unzipping slow, and then stepped closer. He didn’t pull himself out—not yet.

“Do it,” he said, “You brought all this shy heat in here… now act like you want me.”

Her hand trembled as she lifted it, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his briefs beneath. The heat coming off him was obscene. She could already feel the throb through the cotton. Her hand paused there—just resting—until he spoke again.

“Mmh… go ‘head. Bring me out.”

Swallowing hard, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband and eased it down. It sprung out.

God.

Her whole face flushed hot. It was so much. Long and heavy and thick, the color deep and rich and angry-looking. Veins snaked the shaft like roots, pulsing just beneath the skin. It twitched in the air like it had a heartbeat—like it knew it was being looked at. Already slick at the tip, glistening.

She gasped. Actually gasped.

Stack just stood there biting his lip, watching her watch him like it was a damn show. His chest rose slow. Eyes hooded. Lips parted.

“Well?” he drawled, “You gon’ hold it or just stare like it’s the second coming?”

She reached for it.

Her fingers wrapped around him, and even that felt shocking. Heavy in her hand. Warm. Smooth but ridged. He hissed through his teeth the moment she gripped it, and her thighs squeezed tighter at the sound.

“Mmm,” he moaned, “Thaaaat’s it…How that feel, baby?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth was parted, her breath uneven. She was too busy staring at how her hand barely wrapped around it. He reached for her other hand and slid it beneath. Brought it to his balls.

“Both hands,” he whispered, “Yeah…warm lil’ hands. You feel how heavy them nuts is? That’s full, baby. That’s a whole baptism waitin’ to happen.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Because the weight of it in her palms—the twitch of his length, the scent of skin and musk and heat—was too much. She started stroking, slow and unsure. He made a sound deep in his throat, head tipping back, hips shifting just enough to push into her grasp.

“You see how big it is?” he grunted, “You really think you ready for this in them holy holes of yours?”

She couldn’t speak. She just nodded again, helplessly. He took over then—guiding her stroke. Fisting himself with her hands still wrapped there. Making it glide slick and smooth between her palms. She watched as he played with his own tip, thumbing the slick bead leaking out. He brought it to her lips without a word. She opened her mouth without thinking. He smeared it across her tongue. Let her taste it. She blinked up at him—ashamed, stunned, starving. Stack smirked. His dimple carved deep like it knew what kind of devil he was.

Then he swung his length in her face.

Not playfully.

Like a warning.

Like a threat.

It slapped her cheek with a soft, wet smack, the weight of it making her shiver. She gasped again, frozen, lips parted.

“Stroke it,” he ordered, “Nice and slow.”

She did. She obeyed. And he just watched her, biting his lip again, his chest rising, his hand guiding hers, until his hips started to roll with it—gently at first, then a little deeper.

“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rasped, “Look how hard I get for you. You gon’ keep playin’ with it or you gon’ put it where it belong?”

Her breath hitched, “It’s…warm.”

He laughed. Quiet and rough, “Course it is. It’s waitin’ on you.”

She swallowed again. Her eyes trailed down. She already knew where it belonged. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she continued stroking him, his tip gliding in her hand, slick and messy. Her thighs wouldn’t stop clenching. She could feel her own slick now, sticky, heat pooling in her belly like something unholy.

And still—he kept watching.

Waiting.

Ready to ruin her.

“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, eyes trailing down to her lips, “You ain’t ready for this in your mouth.”

The words hit her like a palm to the chest. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Ashamed. Aching. Her lips were parted, trembling a little. She didn’t even realize she’d started leaning forward, mouth open like she was gonna beg. But Stack saw it. Saw all of it.

“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low, amused, wrecked. “So hungry, and still ain’t earned your supper.”

She swallowed thickly, face burning. His dick bobbed in her hand—heavy, twitching, leaking like it was aware of every sinful thing passing between them. Her palm was slick from stroking him, fingers wet with that glossy mess from his tip.

“You still got work to do, baby. But I’ma show you.”

He slid a hand along his own length while she held it, guiding the pressure. He gripped the base and slapped the tip across her cheek again—wet, slow, a soft pap that made her flinch and whimper. It swayed afterward like it was alive, twitching with every beat of his heart. He stepped back, breathing heavy, and dropped into the nearby chaise like a man needing to sit. His thighs parted, one arm thrown over the back lazily while the other gestured for her to follow.

“C’mere. On your knees, right there.”

She crawled forward, still holding him. She felt delirious—like she’d been drugged by desire. Her whole body flushed, nipples tight, core pulsing, her pussy sticky from how worked up she was just from looking at it and the way he ate her up. He leaned back, eyes dark, and his lips gleamed with pussy juice and spit. Half-lidded now. Ravished.

“Pump it slow, baby. Like I showed you.”

She wrapped her hand back around him, and he hissed loud through his teeth.

“Thaaaat’s it. Mmm. Just like that…”

Her hand moved, gentle but firm, up and down. She watched how his length looked in her hand—too big, too thick, veiny and proud and angry-looking. The tip had a deep flush, and it kept drooling like it couldn’t hold back. His skin was satin-warm, but there was a steel weight underneath. Her hand trembled as she stroked—her thumb catching the sensitive underside every time she came up.

“Good girl. That’s how you stroke me.”

Then he started talking filthy.

“Mmm, you feel that weight? That’s a whole Sunday’s worth of sin sittin’ in your hand right now. You strokein’ it like a good little convert…You tryna be saved by the stick, huh?”

Her throat tightened. Her breath came faster.

“Mmph—ahhh…fuuuuck…” His moan broke loose like it slipped past his teeth on accident. Long. Raw. Guttural,“Hhhahhhh—shhhhit…” He bit his bottom lip hard, nostrils flaring. His hips flexed once. His abs tightened. He growled something deep and Southern under his breath, voice low and rough, “Just like that, baby… fuuuuck, yeah…”

She could hear how wet the sounds were now—her hand moving through all that slickness. The mess was obscene. His tip kept swelling, his balls drawn tight now in her other hand. He pulsed so violently in her grip it made her tremble.

“Faster now. That’s it—tighten that grip. Lemme fuck your fist for a second—mmmghh—fuck.” He threw his head back, “Nnnngh—shit. That’s it. That’s it. Keep goin’. Don’t stop now, girl—fuck—”

The sound of her name half-escaped his mouth but died on a moan so raw it made her thighs clench again. His voice cracked with it. Her name had turned into just a sound:

“Mmm—Marigo—fuck—gold—uhhhhhh…”

She’d never heard a man sound like this. Like he was unraveling at the seams. He started breathing through his teeth, fast and sharp. His thighs tensed, the muscles twitching. His chest lifted and fell with every stroke of her hand. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. His lips parted, and he looked down at her like he was ruined.

“You gon’ make me cum, baby…You gon’ make me spill all this in them pretty hands…You gon’ keep pumpin’ like a good girl, or you gon’ stop now and disobey?”

Her hands didn’t stop. Her mouth opened in a shaky gasp. She wanted it. Wanted to see what he looked like when he let go for her.

And she was about to find out.

It happened fast.

One moment, she was stroking him like he taught her—watching the way his body tensed, listening to the filthy praises falling from his lips like gospel—and the next, his whole frame snapped.

“Hhhhnnn—fuck—right there—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He gripped the back of the chaise like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, his arms stretching wide, every muscle flexing like a cord drawn taut. His back arched. Hips jolted. His thighs trembled as he spilled with a broken, desperate groan.

“UHHHH—shhhhit—Marigold—fuck, baby girl—”

She gasped.

Her hand flew to her mouth in pure, wide-eyed shock. It was spurting. Thick and hot. Rope after rope spilling over her fist and wrist. Her skin was painted in it. The first shot startled her—it hit her thumb, thick and sticky. The next slid down between her fingers, warm like molten honey. The way it pulsed out of him, kept pulsing…it was unreal. Her hand never stopped moving, instinctively now, as if guided by his need.

He was twitching. Moaning through it. Loud.

Not quiet grunts, not polite sounds.

“Ahhh—ahhhnn—fuckfuckfuck—mmmghhh—look what you do to me…you see this mess you made?”

His head tipped back. Then it dropped forward again as if the weight of release was too much. His eyes squeezed shut. His brow wrinkled in the middle, lips falling open in a moan so raw it sounded like prayer. He was panting. Rattled. Ripped apart.

She had never seen a man come before.

Not like this.

She’d heard whispered things from the church wives, veiled confessions in kitchens and back pews. But nothing prepared her for this. The way his body moved…the tremble of his thighs, the way his abs clenched, the way his dick jerked in her slick palm, spurting more than she thought possible. The veins down his shaft bulged. His tip flushed nearly purple. It just…kept coming.

She was soaked in him.

His moans…

They weren’t just noises.

They were unholy.

“Uhhhhhh—mmmhh, shit—so warm—that’s it, that’s it—you made me bust like that…like a nasty fuckin’ addict. You feel that mess? That’s from you, girl. Thinkin’ ‘bout that sweet lil’ mouth. That tight lil’ hole. You did that to me…”

She was shaking.

Knees pressing together, breath ragged. Her heart thumped like a drum in a revival tent. Her thighs were soaked now—not with him, but with herself. She was leaking, pulsing around nothing. Vibrating from the inside out.

She kept staring at her hand.

It was coated.

Sticky, messy, oozing down her palm and wrist in strands. Creamy and warm. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t dare move.

Stack opened his eyes.

They were wrecked. Heavy-lidded. Glazed over like he was still coming down. His voice was hoarse but deep when he spoke again.

“You wanna taste?”

Her eyes jerked up to his. She froze.

She didn’t answer.

“Go on. Just a lil’ taste. You earned it.”

She looked back down. Swallowed hard. The heat between her legs pulsed again. Her face was burning. But her hand lifted.

Slow.

Uncertain.

She brought two fingers to her mouth, lips trembling. Her tongue darted out… just a flick. Just enough to sample what was still slick and warm on her skin.

The taste was…startling.

Raw. Salty. Heavy. Not sweet, not bitter—just masculine. Musky. Like the scent of his skin, but deeper. Something earthy and thick. Her eyes fluttered closed for a split second as she took it in.

Stack was watching her.

His mouth twitched into a slow, sinful smirk.

“Mmm…taste good? That’s that stuff that fill your lil’ hole up like a cream fillin’. That’s what you make me do when I think ‘bout you. When I picture you sittin’ on that church bench all high and mighty. That tight dress. That mouth runnin’. You know what I wanna do?” He leaned forward now, breathing still uneven, “I wanna stuff that mouth full so you hum when you pray. Wanna bust again in that sweet lil’ pussy. Feel it spill deep inside. Warm you up from the inside out. Don’t worry… you gon’ feel it soon. In your mouth. In that holy lil’ puss.”

She whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together again. Her stomach turned in knots. She was damn near vibrating—with shock, with shame, with overwhelming desire.

She wanted it.

Wanted him.

All of it.

Even the parts that made her feel like she’d never be clean again. She licked her fingers again—slower this time.

And Stack groaned.

Low. Long. Possessive.

The robe slid soft over her shoulders.

Stack’s fingers tucked it closed with care. One hand lingered at her waist while the other rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Marigold was still trembling a little—body flushed and spent, lips kiss-worn, thighs sticky with arousal and ache.

“You did good f’me tonight,” Stack spoke softly, voice low and warm against the curve of her jaw, “Better than good. You was beautiful.”

She swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye yet.

Stack’s lips brushed her temple, “I know that was a lot. Intense. But you made it through. And you gon’ keep makin’ it through.”

A beat.

“Long as you listen.”

Marigold nodded, shy. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Stack kissed her there—soft and slow—before pulling back and adjusting the robe again like she was something precious. Then he ran a hand down her back, giving her a little pat on the behind.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He opened the door.

And there she was.

Mirabel.

Perched near the end of the hallway, leaning casual against the wall like she’d been waiting to catch him. The lighting cast her face in partial shadow, but not enough to hide the spark of jealousy in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to Marigold—robe-wrapped, cheeks flushed, collarbone still damp with sweat—and then it snapped back to Stack.

She smiled. Tight. Slow.

“Evenin’, Stack,” she said cool, but her eyes were daggers.

“Evenin’,” Stack tossed back just as calm, guiding Marigold past with his hand firm at her waist. He didn’t stop walking. Marigold’s heart pounded harder as they passed, but Stack just leaned down toward her ear once they were beyond reach.

“She mad,” he whispered with a smirk, “Let her be.”

The bathroom was one the girls used—a big space with soft yellow light, lace curtains, and a clawfoot tub full of steaming water already drawn and waiting. Someone must’ve prepared it during the performance. Maybe Cordelia. Maybe Peaches. Stack guided her to the edge of the tub and helped untie her robe, laying it across the bench before helping her in like she was something breakable. The warm water hit her skin, and she gasped softly. Stack knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, one hand lazily skimming the water near her knee.

“I’m gon’ keep takin’ care of you,” he said softly, “Long as you let me.”

Marigold blinked at him, still trying to find footing in her own body. He picked up the soap and a washcloth, worked up a gentle lather, and began to clean her—slow and thorough. Between her breasts. Under her arms. Between her thighs. He never rushed. His hands were skilled, but his touch was almost devotional. And then, just as he was wringing out the cloth, he spoke again.

“You goin’ to church tomorrow?”

She nodded.

Stack leaned in closer. His voice dropped like honey over fire, “Then go with your collar loose.”

Her brows knit.

“No gloves, neither.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in softly, “You wanna wear them stockings, fine. But leave that stiff little jacket off. Let ‘em see you. Let ‘em see that skin glowin’.”

She looked down into the water, heat creeping up her throat. Stack grinned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Let it be known you ain’t hidin’ no more. Not from me. Not from them. Not from yourself.”

A pause.

“Wear somethin’ with some movement,” he added, “Somethin’ that feel good on your skin. Not just somethin’ to be good in.”

Marigold stared into the rippling water, the heat curling between her ribs and down between her legs all over again.

Stack stood and wiped his hands, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Finish soakin’”

He left her with that—wet, warm, soaking in his scent and his commandments, her fingers brushing the steam off her thighs and her heart pounding like a hymn.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm.

Marigold sat still in it, her knees tucked close now, the steam gone but the heat still lingering—beneath her skin, between her legs, in the deep places where Stack’s voice still echoed like a pulse. She didn’t even realize he’d returned to the doorway until she heard the gentle click of the door shutting again. He carried a fresh towel, big, soft, still warm from the line, and he knelt beside the tub without a word.

“Come on, sugar,” he said gently, “Let me get you out this water.”

She stood, legs wobbly, heart even worse. The air felt too cool against her flushed skin. Stack didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. He just wrapped her up and held her there for a moment, hands rubbing slow over her back, the towel soaking in the water beading off her thighs.

“Still tremblin’,” he murmured, “You somethin’ else.”

He dried her in silence—slow, sure strokes. No rush. No shame. He was still half-drunk, but his hands were steady now. Every time she flinched or tried to cover herself, he just shook his head and pulled her hands away.

“You got no reason to hide from me, Miss Goldie.”

Once she was dry, he crossed the room and returned with the same church clothes she’d arrived in—folded neat, the little pearl buttons glinting in the bathroom light.

“Put your arms up,” he said.

She did. Stack dressed her like she was a doll—patient, careful, brushing her curls back from her face once he was done, fastening the buttons she was too dazed to handle herself. He stepped back to look at her once it was all done, nodding slow with his arms crossed like he was admiring something he built with his own two hands.

“You came in lookin’ like the preacher’s wife.” His smile deepened, “Now you look like mine.”

She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.

He held out his hand. She took it.

The walk to the kitchen was quiet. The Blackline had quieted some, the pulse of the music fading into background laughter and the clink of glasses being washed. Late-night was creeping in now. But there was still that magic in the air, that slow drag of honeyed sin and soft perfume. Aunt Pearl stood at the big wooden counter, wiping down mugs. Stack kissed her on the cheek.

“Need a favor, Auntie.”

Pearl glanced between them—between Marigold’s glassy eyes and Stack’s possessive hand at the small of her back—and smiled slow.

“Let me guess. She need a ride?”

“If you don’t mind takin’ her home the long way, quiet-like. Don’t want no preacher poppin’ up with holy water at the back door.”

Pearl smirked, “Ain’t no problem, baby.”

Stack turned to Marigold and took her face in both hands. His thumb stroked just under her lip.

“I got some things comin’ up later in the week,” he spoke, close enough that she felt the rum still warm on his breath, “My lil cousin Sammie comin’ in town from Clarksdale. Throwin’ a lil event here for him. Lot to plan.”

She nodded, trying not to show the disappointment that fluttered through her chest.

“But I can’t wait to see you again.”

He kissed her. Tongue slow, soft, just enough to make her knees buckle again. Just enough to make her whimper and press closer.

He broke it with a soft growl and a smile.

“I’ll have Auntie come get you next time. Make it easy. Safe. That alright?”

She nodded again, more grateful than she could say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her one more time. Slower this time. Possessive. Sweet, “Get home safe.”

She was still floating when Pearl led her out the back. Still tasting him on her lips. Still flushed beneath her clothes. The robe, the bathwater, the whisper of his mouth between her thighs—every part of it clung to her like perfume. She stepped out into the cool night air with a full moon overhead and a feeling she couldn’t name blooming wild behind her ribs.

She had just been claimed. And she didn’t know what would come next…but she knew she wanted more.

The road was quiet at that hour. Streetlamps cast long amber streaks across the windshield of Aunt Pearl’s old Ford, the soft rattle of the engine humming beneath them like a low lullaby. Marigold sat in the passenger seat wrapped in her robe and freshly buttoned-up clothes, thighs still tingling beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers nervously fidgeting in her lap. The scent of cinnamon oil and sweet tobacco clung to the air—Aunt Pearl’s scent. It felt like a balm. For a while, neither of them spoke. The tires hummed beneath them. Houses passed like slow-moving ghosts.

Then Pearl said softly, without even looking, “You alright, baby?”

Marigold blinked. “I…I think so.”

A pause.

Pearl’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, knuckles catching the orange glow of the dashboard, “First time a man look at you like you ain’t never been seen before… whew. That’ll rock your world.”

Marigold’s face flushed, but she smiled. She turned to the window, a quiet laugh caught behind her hand. Pearl gave her a look from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t be shy with me. I know that look. Your lips all bitten, eyes got that glossy glaze to ‘em, cheeks hot as the back of a cast iron stove.”

Marigold let out a bashful giggle.

Pearl softened.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby girl. I was married once. Long time ago. Thought I had it all. A husband who wore a suit to church and shined his shoes every Sunday. But you know what else he did?”

Marigold glanced over, brows lifting.

“He made me feel small. Like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Said my laugh was too loud. My hips too wide. My needs…‘unholy.’”

Pearl gave a scoff that turned into a hum.

“Let that man convince me I was a sin for wantin’ to be touched soft. For wantin’ more. Took me years to shake that lie off.” She looked over now, her eyes steady on Marigold’s, “So let me be clear with you, sugar. You a woman. You got blood in your veins and fire in your belly. Don’t you ever let anybody—preacher or not—make you feel bad for wantin’ to be seen, touched, loved. That don’t make you sinful. That makes you alive.”

Marigold’s eyes stung, her throat catching with something deeper than gratitude. She reached across the seat and took Pearl’s hand, squeezing it tight.

Pearl gave her a wink.

“And while you at it…get that head, let him spoil you, and have yourself a time, baby!”

Marigold burst into laughter, covering her face, shoulders shaking, her heart suddenly light. The car slowed at the curb outside her home. The laughter faded. The quiet crept back in. Marigold stepped out of the car slowly. The night air was still warm, but it carried a different weight now. A solemn hush. The kind that curled around old houses and old habits.

She leaned in the window before Pearl could drive off and whispered, “Thank you.”

Pearl nodded, “Go on, Sister Goldie. Be soft with yourself.”

With one final squeeze of her hand, Pearl drove off into the dark, her red taillights disappearing like slow-dragging fireflies into the quiet night.

Marigold turned to face her house.

The porch was dark. The windows stared back like judgmental eyes. She stepped onto the walkway, every footfall heavy. Each one peeling a layer off. The robe felt tighter now. Her dress stiff. As the front door opened and she stepped inside, the warmth of The Blackline seemed to slip right off her skin. Her church clothes became a yoke again. The buttons became a seal.

Goldie slipped away…and Sister Marigold Baptiste took her place once more. The silence inside her home wasn’t gentle. It was cold and holy and hollow. She walked past the mirror in the hall without looking. Somewhere in the quiet, in the hush between then and now, a line was typed on paper—faint, soft, but resolute.

He didn’t save me. He saw me. And that was enough…

Thursday Morning—Loosened

Marigold stood barefoot on the worn floorboards of her bedroom, toes curling against the rug, a slip clinging to her skin like a hush. The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains in fractured gold, catching dust and memory in its beams. The house was still. Too still. She stood in front of her wardrobe, staring. Her usual church uniforms hung in a neat row—high collars, long sleeves, skirts that swept to the ankle, gloves folded into little nests in their matching hats. Obadiah liked her polished. Liked her dressed like the wife of a man of God should be.

Stiff. Lacquered in piety. Unreachable.

Her fingers drifted toward her usual dress—the navy one with the pearl buttons. But they stopped.

Go to church tomorrow with your collar loose.

Don’t wear gloves.

Stack’s voice, still hoarse with liquor and lust, wrapped around her spine like a binding spell.

She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

Her thighs still trembled with aftershocks. Her hips ached faintly from how wide he’d spread her. Her pussy twitched at the memory of his mouth—hot, open, devouring. The sound he made when he came. That growl. That filthy, guttural praise as he spilled thick and heavy into her hand. She stared at her palm like it had been marked. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he made her feel—worshipped and ruined at the same time. Her lips parted, breath catching. She squeezed her legs together. She still couldn’t believe she had let that man—that gangster—do all that to her. That she had gasped, moaned, begged for more. She, Sister Marigold Baptiste, had opened her legs for Elias Moore and nearly drowned in her own pleasure.

What am I becoming?

The robe slipped off her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Skin flushed. Nipples still taut.

She never thought about sex. Never allowed herself to. Not like this. Obadiah had never undressed her slowly. Never kissed her thighs. Never praised her wetness. Never even called her pretty during the act. Sex was a duty. A quiet, rushed thing. A groan in the dark. He barely removed his shirt. She had seen his penis—briefly. Small, and already soft when he rolled off of her. She had never felt a man hard in her hands. Had never stroked one.

And then Stack…

Lord.

The weight of it. The way it twitched, leaked, pulsed. Veiny. Warm. So long she couldn’t close her fingers around it fully. So thick she had no idea how it would fit inside her. She could still feel it against her stomach, taste the salt of it on her lip from when she brought her fingers to her tongue to taste.

She trembled.

Her heart beat between her legs.

She reached for a blouse. One without the stiff high collar. She left the top few buttons undone. Her neckline open just enough for a breeze. Just enough to feel free.

No gloves.

Her hands were bare. Feminine. Exposed. She pinned her hair up soft instead of slicked back tight. Let a few curls hang. Her lips looked fuller today. Her cheeks glowed. When she looked in the mirror this time…

She saw her.

Goldie.

Not fully, but there. Blooming beneath the layers of shame and satin. Marigold touched the edge of her blouse, breathing deep.

Was it wrong? To feel this good?

Was it unholy to want?

She didn’t have the answer. But her body had already made the choice. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quiet prayer—half apology, half thanks.Then she stepped into her shoes and walked toward the door.

One button looser than she used to.

No gloves.

The church was near-empty. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, slanting across wooden pews and catching on the glint of polished brass. It was the middle of the week—too quiet for comfort, too sacred for secrets. Marigold stepped inside, her gloves absent, collar loose at the throat. She hadn’t dared to add rouge, but her skin still held that post-bath glow, a hush of warmth left behind by hands that had no business touching her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as she made her way past the vestibule.

“Sister Baptiste,” came a voice—crisp, sweet, and dipped in Southern varnish. She turned to see Sister Bernadine rising from a side pew, wiping her palms down the front of her skirt, “You just missed Reverend Obadiah. He arrived early this morning, before sun-up. Said he wanted to have a word with you after his meeting.” Bernadine gave her a curious glance, “Said to tell you personally.”

Marigold’s heart stuttered. A small, polite smile curled on her lips, “Of course. Thank you, Sister.”

She turned toward his office, trying to still her breath.

He knows.

He had to.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for sound to bleed through.

“…it’s already begun,” a deep male voice was saying.

Another voice: “The signs are here, same as the others.”

Obadiah’s voice: low, calm. “She don’t know yet. But we’ll guide her.”

Marigold’s hand paused on the door. Her stomach turned, bile rising to her tongue. She knocked once, just hard enough to interrupt.

Obadiah called, “Come.”

She entered. The room smelled of sandalwood, ink, and something like musty linen. Four men were present— Deacon Braith, Deacon Ellison, Deacon Ross, and Deacon Wells. Their eyes flicked toward her without warmth. On Obadiah’s desk lay an aged black book with a cracked leather spine. Its pages were stained in sepia and shadow, the title embossed faintly in gold. The Book of Pruning. The deacons excused themselves with short nods, brushing past her like a chilling fog. Obadiah did not move. He watched her with his chin propped on one hand, fingers tapping at his mouth.

When the door clicked shut behind the last man, he rose.

“Marigold.” His voice was smooth, but cool, “Come sit.”

She obeyed.

“You’ve had a busy week, I assume?”

She nodded gently, folding her hands in her lap, “Yes, Reverend. I’ve made sure the Wednesday scripture pamphlets were printed and the children’s corner in the chapel was dusted—”

He cut her off, “I wasn’t asking about pamphlets.”

She stiffened.

“I’ve been made aware of a few matters during my absence,” he continued, walking slowly around the desk, eyes never leaving her, “Namely, Evangeline. Her mother and father came to me concerned. Said she’s been slipping in her study, missing youth devotion. Said she’s…distracted.”

Marigold’s throat dried.

“You were entrusted to oversee the young women’s ministry,” he said, now standing just beside her, “It is your duty, as First Lady, to guard their gates. Their minds. Their bodies.”

“Yes, Reverend,” she murmured.

“Tell me, why wasn’t your focus where it should’ve been?”

She opened her mouth—to lie, maybe. To give some excuse. But nothing came out. Just the sound of her own guilt, ticking like a metronome inside her skull. Obadiah turned his back briefly, adjusted the placement of a hymn book on the shelf. Then, as if it were an afterthought, said:

“You won’t be attending the leadership banquet tomorrow.”

Marigold blinked. “But Obadi—Reverend…the event was reserved for First Ladies—”

“It is,” he said, without turning.

Her voice dropped. “Then why—?”

“I’ve extended the invitation to Sister Lillian instead.”

The name cut like glass.

Obadiah turned slowly now, walking back toward her, gaze sharp, “Because your attention is better spent here, at this church. On the youth. On prayer. On watching.” He leaned closer, voice almost tender, “You do believe in purity…don’t you?”

Marigold nodded, but her throat burned. Her blouse collar felt suddenly too loose, like a noose hanging slack. Obadiah’s fingers reached forward, too soft, and buttoned the top of her blouse himself. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. She flinched.

“You rushed from your bed, I imagine?” he asked quietly, “You’re exposed. Immodest.”

She dropped her gaze.

He let out a slow breath, “I’ll let it pass. You’re tired. But we must be careful with tiredness, Marigold. The devil moves fastest through women who are weary.”

His words hung heavy.

And yet, underneath his cold poise, she could see something twitching beneath the surface. A restlessness in the way he adjusted his cuffs. A fire behind his eyes. He was looking at her too long. His nostrils flared slightly, as though searching for scent. She felt like an open book. One he was preparing to underline in red.

“I’ll pray for your clarity,” he said.

Marigold stood heart racing, “Yes, Reverend.”

She left the office with her head down, but her fists clenched. Something inside her was beginning to burn. And far behind her, unseen, Obadiah reached back and laid a hand on The Book of Pruning. His fingers tightened.

The porch creaked beneath Marigold’s heels.

Afternoon light lay heavy across the crooked planks, and the rusted screen door swayed just slightly with the breeze. Paint peeled from the siding in long, flaking strips, and a row of flower pots sat cracked and bone-dry along the railing. The yard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. She adjusted her gloves, hesitated, then knocked. It was Ruth Monroe who answered—thin-lipped and graying, her face drawn tight like the line of her apron. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and her hands were stiff with age and labor. She blinked once, slowly, before recognition set in.

“First Lady Baptiste,” she said, voice clipped, “Didn’t expect no company.”

“I was hopin’ to speak with Evangeline, if she’s home.”

Ruth’s eyes flicked down the road before settling back on Marigold. A pause. Then a stiff nod, “She in her room. Supposed to be readin’ scripture. I won’t stop you.”

The house was dim and quiet. The smell of old starch and yesterday’s cooking clung to the air. Crosses lined the hallway—some metal, some wood, one with a cracked porcelain Jesus. Marigold’s shoes made soft taps on the floor as she passed.

Ruth didn’t follow.

Evangeline’s door was cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in from the open window. Lace curtains danced slow, and somewhere beyond, a mockingbird sang. The scent of faint smoke lingered, tucked behind the sweetness of youth and dust. Marigold knocked gently before pushing the door open. Evangeline sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a faded cotton slip. Her Bible was open in her lap—but a carved-out hollow in the center held a pouch of weed. Her eyes were sharp as glass when she looked up, wide-set and dark like stormwater.

She didn’t rise.

“Didn’t know we had surprise inspections now,” she said dryly.

Marigold stepped inside, softening her voice, “Ain’t here to scold. Just checkin’ on you.”

Evangeline leaned back against the wall, “Sure you are.”

Marigold’s gaze drifted to the bruise on the girl’s arm. Faint, blooming purple beneath warm brown skin. It looked like a grip. Marigold said nothing, but the chill moved through her.

“You’ve been missed,” she offered, “The studies ain’t the same.”

“They never were,” Evangeline said, “Naomi knew that. That’s why she left.”

Marigold stiffened, “You’ve spoken to her?”

Evangeline tilted her head, “Maybe I have. Maybe I ain’t. What difference it make?”

There was something older than eighteen in her tone. A tiredness that hadn’t been earned fairly.

“You should come back,” Marigold said, “Even if it’s just to talk.”

Evangeline smiled bitter, “Talk to who? The sisters who whisper about my skirt length? Or the elders who think weed’s worse than bein’ touched up by your own blood?”

Marigold’s stomach twisted, “That bruise—”

“Don’t worry yourself.”

“I am worried.”

Evangeline held her gaze a second longer, then looked out the window.

“I don’t need pity,” she said, “You ain’t gotta pretend.”

“I’m not pretending. I just…I want to help.”

The silence between them crackled.

Finally, Marigold said, quieter, “If you ever need to talk—my door’s open. You know where I stay.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” Evangeline called out.

Marigold paused.

“Tell the church ladies I’m doin’ just fine,” she said with a crooked smile, “Tell Obadiah too.”

Marigold nodded, but her heart felt like glass cracking. She stepped back into the hallway, past the stiff furniture and the quiet disapproval in Ruth’s eyes.

Door on the knob, Ruth’s voice cut through.

“Tea?”

The teacups trembled slightly in their saucers as Ruth returned with the tray. She set it down on the table with care, though her hands betrayed her—fingers stiff, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Chamomile,” she said quietly, “Calms the heart.”

Marigold nodded, her hands folded politely in her lap. “Thank you, Sister Ruth.”

They sat across from each other, the tea untouched at first. Ruth stared into her cup as if it held answers she didn’t want to name.

“I worry ‘bout my baby,” she said finally, voice catching in her throat.

Marigold glanced toward the hall, “She’s still young. Young women…they test boundaries.”

Ruth’s hand came to her mouth, “Last week, I caught her with a boy. In her room. Pants down. The devil in both their eyes. I—I ain’t never seen her like that.” Her voice broke, “I raised her better.”

Marigold’s expression softened. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny cross in the corner. She placed it gently in Ruth’s hand.

Ruth took it with a whispered thank-you, dabbing her eyes, “I told her daddy. He ain’t say nothin’. Just got quiet. That quiet he get when he ready to act.”

Marigold’s brows lifted, concern blooming, “He put his hands on her?”

Ruth didn’t answer directly. She looked away, swallowing hard, “He say he takin’ it to Obadiah. That’s what he said. Said the church gon’ fix her.”

The words sank into the room like wet cement. Marigold kept her posture composed, but her knuckles were white around the teacup.

“I’ve tried, Sister Marigold. God knows I have. I’ve prayed. Fasted. Tried to bring her back to the Word. She used to be so close with Naomi. I don’t know what changed.”

The shift in Ruth’s voice was subtle, but sharp. A buried grudge resurfacing.

Marigold straightened, “Naomi was a good girl. Spirited, yes. But kind. And smart.”

Ruth’s mouth tightened, “Spirited is one word for it. Wild’s another.”

Marigold blinked, the sting immediate.

Ruth sipped her tea, then sighed, “I’m sorry, but…Naomi was already walkin’ a dangerous path when she left. And your sister—Esther—Lord knows she had her own darkness to wrestle with. That blood runs hot, Sister Marigold. Always has. And now my child’s caught up in it.”

Marigold rose from her chair slowly, “That blood is my blood, Sister Ruth.”

Ruth flinched, but didn’t apologize.

Marigold’s voice was quiet but firm, “Esther may be in a home now, but she is still my sister. And Naomi is still my niece. She stayed with me after everything. When no one else would take her in.”

“She ran off again, didn’t she?” Ruth asked, “Left you, too.”

“That’s between me and God,” Marigold said.

A beat passed. Ruth’s expression faltered.

“I–I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I—I’m just scared, is all.”

Marigold nodded, brushing invisible dust from her gloves, “We all are.” She reached for her purse and paused before leaving, “If Evangeline ever wants to talk…she can come to my home. No judgments. No rules.”

Ruth looked up, eyes shining, “Thank you.”

With a polite nod, Marigold turned to go, her shoes tapping lightly against the wood floor. But something about her posture had changed—shoulders set a little firmer, gaze a little deeper. She was beginning to see it now. The cracks. The blame. The way righteousness could be twisted into something cruel.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the last stretch of sunlight clawing its way through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. A faint tick-tick of the old clock chimes from the mantel in the front parlor, counting down a moment she’s already decided on. Evangeline moves quietly, barefoot on the worn wood floors. Her room door closes behind her with a soundless pull. She’s changed out of her at-home dress into something a little looser, a little freer—soft cotton skirt, button-up shirt tied at the waist, and a pair of borrowed saddle shoes. Lips glossed. Hair fluffed. Her eyes flicker like they’ve been holding back a storm.

She steps carefully past the kitchen doorway.

Inside, Ruth Monroe, hunched at the table, her back to her daughter, a teacup forgotten in her hand. She’s holding something in her other hand—a photograph. The edges are curled from years of drawer dust and sunlight. The image: a toddler in frilly white socks with a wide, gummy smile. Baby Evangeline. Ruth stares at it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Evangeline stops in the hallway—just for a breath. Her eyes soften, guilt threatening to root her feet in place. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step in.

She moves on.

Out the back and into night fall.

The screen door creaks, the sound swallowed by the rising hum of crickets and distant dogs barking in the dark. The porch light flickers once, then steadies. Down the gravel driveway, headlights flash twice.

A car waits at the corner.

Behind the wheel is a broad-shouldered boy with slicked-back hair and a look that says he knows how to lie for fun. In the passenger seat is a girl, maybe twenty, sharp-lined eyeliner and bubblegum lips, smacking gum with the window half-down. She waves Evangeline over like she owns the night. Evangeline grins—crooked, excited, a little scared—and runs. She climbs into the back seat, sliding in with practiced ease, the leather hot against her thighs.

The girl up front twists in her seat, “Took you long enough.”

“Had a visitor,” Evangeline says, breathless.

“You good?”

“Always.”

The car rolls forward slow at first, wheels crunching gravel as it pulls away from the Monroe house. In the rearview mirror, Evangeline sees the porch light still on. Her mother still inside. Her past still burning quietly behind her. Then the car turns the corner. The house disappears. The road stretches on. The music comes up low and dirty—something bluesy and grown. And Evangeline leans back, wind slipping through the open window, eyes wide and wild with the freedom of a girl who knows the night belongs to her.

The back office of The Blackline was dim-lit, heavy with cigar smoke and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald humming low from the gramophone in the corner. Stack stood by the mirror, brushing the dust from his shoulders, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his chest. His gold toothpick glinted as he adjusted the tilt of his fedora. Behind him, Smoke sat in the old leather chair, one leg draped over the other, wrist resting on his knee. He looked tired. The kind of tired that clung behind the eyes even when the body sat still. His undershirt was damp with the heat of the day and he was nursing the stub of a cigar that had long gone out.

Stack caught his twin’s reflection.

“You look like you been rode hard and put up crooked,” he muttered with a grin.

Smoke smirked, slow, “Ain’t slept much.”

Stack glanced over, “Everything straight?”

Smoke nodded once, eyes sharp even in fatigue, “Goods came in this morning. Delia counted it out. Runners are loading the dry cellar now. I’ll handle the rest ‘fore sundown.”

A beat passed.

Then Smoke added, like an afterthought, “Thank God for Aunt Pearl and Minnie. They been holdin’ it down.”

Stack caught that—the weight in his voice. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the small liquor cart and poured himself a splash of bourbon.

“You gon’ be alright while I pick up Sammie?”

“Go ahead.” Smoke exhaled slow, “He’s grown now. Shit’s wild.”

Stack chuckled, “Feels like yesterday he was cryin’ ‘cause we wouldn’t let him hold the shotgun.”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. Then, like a shift in the wind, he asked, “You been seein’ her lately, huh?”

Stack’s hand stilled on the glass, “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb wit’ me.” Smoke tilted his head, “That preacher’s wife.”

Stack leaned back on the desk, licking the bourbon from his bottom lip. His face didn’t give much away—but his voice softened, “Names Marigold.”

Smoke raised a brow, “You helpin’ her or huntin’ her?”

Stack gave a long pause. Then said, “She don’t even know what she is, man.”

Smoke narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting.

“All her life she been told she was a lamb. Quiet. Meek. Somethin’ to protect. Somethin’ to keep holy. But she ain’t just that.” Stack swirled the liquor in his glass, “She a woman. And ain’t nothin’ shameful about that.”

Smoke let the words hang, chewing on them like tobacco, “You like her.”

Stack didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.

“Ain’t got a name for it yet.” He looked toward the half-cracked window where the sunlight broke in like gold ribbon, “But when she talk, I listen. When she cry, I feel it. When she’s quiet…I still hear her.”

Smoke whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep for you.”

“She different.”

A silence settled between them.

Smoke leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders never left, “You sure you know what you doin’? Messin’ wit’ a church woman. You don’t think she’ll break the moment she sees all this?” He gestured around to the room, to the whole world they’d built.

Stack shook his head slowly, “She already cracked, Smoke. I’m just showin’ her what’s on the other side of it.”

Smoke blew out a breath, finally standing. He grabbed his coat from the hook and tossed it over one shoulder.

“Just don’t fall too hard, Stack. Been through enough trouble.”

“Too late.”

Smoke stopped in the doorway and looked back, lips parting like he might say something more—something truer. But instead, he clapped his brother on the back once and said, “Go get the boy. I’ll have the drinks cold and the girls ready.”

Stack grinned.

“You better. He ain’t never had his dick wet or his soul stirred.”

Smoke chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, “Lord help him.”

And just like that, the office went quiet again except for the soft scratch of Ella on the record player, and the faint echo of two lives breaking in ways neither of them could name yet.

Stack stepped out of his office like a sermon in silk.

Midnight-blue three-piece suit hugging him just right, pocket square crisp, gold rings glinting with every flick of his fingers. His toothpick shifted as he adjusted the collar of his shirt—an ivory number with subtle embroidery so fine you’d have to squint to catch it. His shoes? Black leather gators. He walked like they knew how much they cost. On his way out, he caught sight of Violet at the end of the hall—pressed sweet against Smoke, who was acting downright boyish for a man with a .38 tucked beneath his waistband. Smoke had her giggling in a soft dress, hands roaming her hips, his voice low and teasing in her ear. He cupped her ass like it was his second home.

Stack paused with a smirk.

“Lord, y’all actin’ like I ain’t got places to be.”

Violet laughed, bashful, swatting Smoke’s hand away.

Smoke just grinned, eyes never leaving her.

“And you actin’ like you ain’t jealous.”

Stack strolled closer, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Violet’s forehead.

“Nah, I’m proud. She finally got him to smile like he ain’t made of brick and bourbon.”

Smoke snorted. Violet blushed deeper.

Stack adjusted his cuffs and headed into the main lounge.

The Blackline—Main Floor

The air was velvet-thick with cigarette haze and the scent of clove oil and red lipstick.

Cordelia, draped in deep plum and dark pearls, stood near the bar snapping orders with a voice that cracked like a whip.

“Move them tables. No, not there—by the stage. Odessa! If that hem ain’t fixed by showtime I swear—”

Stack passed her with a grin and a low whistle.

“Don’t work too hard, Boss Lady.”

“Don’t flirt too loud, Player.”

He blew her a kiss. She caught it midair and slapped it into her bra with a wink. Near the front, Liza June sat cross-legged on the velvet fainting couch, her eyes deep in a tarot spread laid across the lap of Clarissa. The air around them shimmered with mystery and slow jazz.

Stack gave Liza a nod.

She nodded back without looking up.

“You walkin’ into somethin’ new today.”

“Ain’t I always?” Stack replied, slipping on his overcoat.

West Ninth Street—“Little Harlem”

Early evening. Golden hour. A Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, glides through the bustle like a crown through a crowd. Stack’s hand rests out the window, rings catching light. Street corners hum with life—boys shining shoes, girls laughing in curls and cotton, a brass band warming up down the block.

West Ninth is pulsing.

Men in brimmed hats gather outside the barbershop, talking baseball and bootleg money. Church mothers step out of bakeries clutching warm pies and giving Stack a knowing side-eye. Teenage boys pause their dice game to admire his car. Stack pulls up outside a Black-owned shoe shop—Thompson & Sons Fine Footwear—where the windows glisten with patent leathers and hand-stitched brogues. A wooden sign out front reads:

EST. 1917 – STYLE THAT SPEAKS

He steps out slow, coat sliding off one shoulder, giving the full view of his suit. The wind catches the edge of his jacket. A girl walking by mutters:

“Mmm, that man look like trouble in cologne.”

Inside, the shop smells like cedar, leather polish, and confidence. Mr. Thompson, an elder with sharp eyes and a sharper press, greets him:

“Moore.”

“Thompson.”

Stack tries on a pair of custom blood-red two-tone lace-ups, alligator trim. He lifts his leg, admires the gleam.

“You makin’ devils dance in these, old man. Only the bold can wear red without bleedin’ in it.”

Stack pays in full. No haggling. He tips extra for the young boy who buffs the heel until it gleams like a moonlit spill. Outside again, he slides into the driver’s seat, lets the door thud shut, and lights a cigar. His reflection smirks at him in the rearview.

The man’s ready. He ain’t just Stack. He’s legacy. Swagger. Lust in linen. Blues in human form.

And tonight?

He’s got Preacher Boy Sammie to pick up.

Union Station—Little Rock, Arkansas—4:16 PM

The train hissed into the station with a long, dusty breath, its steel spine gleaming beneath the fall sun. Smoke curled up from the engine stack like an omen softened by rhythm and routine. A gust of wind kicked through the terminal, lifting loose flyers from the bulletin board and tousling the feather in Stack’s wide-brimmed hat.

Elias “Stack” Moore leaned against his Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, immaculate as always. The paint caught the light like obsidian, fresh from a hand-rubbed polish. His shoes—custom-made from stingray leather, jet-black with a silver tip—gleamed as he crossed one ankle over the other. He flicked open his pocket watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and waited with a crooked grin, knowing he looked like sin with credit.

And then he saw him.

Sammie Moore.

Twenty years old and walking like the world had finally called him by name. Fresh off the train in a three-piece tan suit—clean, but not flashy—with a golden pocket square folded just right and a worn leather guitar case slung over his shoulder like a badge of freedom. His hair was brushed back in smooth waves, sides taper-clean. His eyes, wide and alert, took in the city like a hymn he’d only ever heard about.

Sammie Moore was Delta-born, raised in the tight drawl of wooden churches and crooked porch swings, but he carried the sharp edge of something bigger now. A college man. A first-generation miracle.

He stepped down onto the platform, his gold fraternity pin shining on his lapel: Alpha Phi Alpha—the first of its kind, newly founded by Black scholars hungry for more. And Sammie? He was studying Education and Black History, determined to uplift what his people had been taught to forget. His scholarship came from a local Black benevolent society—one his mother petitioned after his father refused to sign the papers.

He spotted Stack instantly.

“Cousin Stack!” Sammie grinned, wide and sunlit.

“Preacher Boy!” Stack stepped forward, his voice slick and gravel-laced. “Look at you, all grown and full of scholar. What they feedin’ y’all in them lecture halls? Confidence?”

They embraced hard and quick, two firm slaps on the back, the kind that say I see you, I’m proud, I got you always.

“You look like Harlem itself,” Sammie said, eyeing Stack’s tailored fit and toothpick grin.

Stack cocked a brow. “And you look like you just graduated from Sunday school for grown men. C’mon, lemme show you what Little Harlem got cookin’.”

They walked toward the Cadillac, Sammie whistling low. “This yours?”

“She purrs when I talk sweet and bite back when I don’t. Just how I like ’em.”

Sammie chuckled as they slid into the car. The doors shut with a deep, luxurious clunk. Windows down, wind in their collars, blues on the radio—somewhere between Bessie Smith and the devil humming in a bottle.

As they eased into traffic, Sammie caught the glint of sunlight off glass across the street. He turned to look.

There she was.

Evangeline Monroe.

Standing just outside a beauty supply shop, laughing with two other girls. Her dress was butter-yellow with white gloves and shiny black oxfords. Hair done in a neat bob, curls perfect. Her profile hit like a note not written down—delicate, sharp, unforgettable.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes tracking her every movement, “Who that sweet thing?”

Stack didn’t look. Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like a preacher who knew exactly when to pause before the punchline.

“There’s plenty of sweet at the House,” Stack said, “You’ll see.”

Sammie glanced once more, then leaned back into the seat, guitar case pressed against his knee. But the look on his face stayed soft. Curious. Marked.

Stack didn’t say more.

And somewhere behind them, Evangeline turned—as if she’d felt eyes on her—but the car was already gone.

The front doors of The Blackline eased open with a slow, sensual creak—like even the hinges knew how to tease—and the air inside wrapped around Sammie like velvet dipped in molasses and smoke.

He stepped inside behind Stack, and the world bloomed.

The camera didn’t cut. It glided. Swooped. Curved around their shoulders and swept left, past the smoky lamps and satin-draped booths, past the heavy perfume of sin and sugar, and the sound of laughter layered like jazz chords—sharp, low, then rising.

Stack paused in the doorway, Sammie just a step behind him, holding tight to that leather-strapped guitar.

The scene was alive.

🎺 Cue jazz horns and shuffling feet 🎺

Liza June was halfway through a Tarot reading near the fireplace—her golden curls bouncing as she laid a card down with a hiss of silk and whispered, “Ooh baby, Death reversed. That mean change is comin’.” The woman across from her gasped like she’d caught the Holy Ghost. Someone refilled their glasses with blackberry wine.

The camera panned right.

Cordelia, decked in a sheer black robe with nothing underneath but thigh straps and a mouth full of threat, barked orders to a new girl about fixing her eyeliner, then turned, heels clicking, and caught sight of the boys.

“Well well well,” she drawled, one brow cocked, “The Moore boys walkin’ in like Sunday salvation. And who’s the cutie?”

Sammie blushed under the lights. His tie already felt too tight.

Cordelia sauntered up and cupped his face gently with one manicured hand. “Ain’t you handsome. You legal, baby?”

“Just turned,” Sammie mumbled.

“Mm. That’s the best flavor.” She winked and moved on, hips rolling like music.

The camera kept moving. Girls passed by—some half-dressed in beaded bustiers and garter belts, others wrapped in lace robes or chemises that barely skimmed their thighs. A group of them waved from a nearby booth, one licking whipped cream off her finger.

“Happy birthday, sugar!” one called.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes darting, lips parted, “This place real?”

Stack just grinned, proud and unbothered, an arm slung heavy across his cousin’s shoulders, “You in The Blackline now,” he said, “I built it from sin and good taste. You see liquor, you drink it. You see sugar, you taste it. You see pussy, you praise it.”

They passed a hallway where flickering wall lamps threw long shadows. The camera dipped low as someone dashed past in stockings and laughter. Somewhere deep in the back, the slow clatter of dice and the moan of a piano spilled through a cracked door.

From the kitchen, the smell hit like a memory Sammie hadn’t earned—fried catfish, hot water cornbread, sweet peach glaze, and something that smelled like his mama’s poundcake but naughtier.

He inhaled sharply, “Goddamn.”

Stack chuckled, “That be Aunt Pearl. Don’t let her fool you—she got more spice in that pot than Jesus had disciples.”

And then—

Violet.

A burst of soft curls. A squeal of joy.

“Sammie!” she called out, hurrying over in a warm, wine-colored dress that hugged her soft curves. She wrapped him up in a hug that was all hips and sunshine.

Sammie grinned wide, surprised but clearly overjoyed.

“I ain’t seen you in—”

“Too long,” Violet finished. “Look at you! Little cousin all grown up and dressed better than a Pullman porter.”

“Look at you! You jumped wit’ Ghost and got fine doing it.”

She laughed, and Stack tilted his head, “Don’t give him all your sugar, Vi. Leave some for Smoke.”

She smacked his arm.

Stack turned to Sammie again, clapping a hand on his back, “I brought you here for a reason,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, like a promise being carved. “We gon’ celebrate your transition. Blues, bourbon, and if you play your cards right…” He smirked, “You gon’ get your tip wet for the first time.”

Sammie blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Don’t act brand new.” Stack leaned in, voice thick with mischief. “You grown now. I’m givin’ you the keys to the kingdom.”

The camera followed as they crossed through the den, past sultry shadows and swaying silhouettes. Upstairs, Stack showed him a room set aside—modest, but nice. Clean sheets. A basin. A mirror edged in gold. Sammie dropped his duffel on the bed but kept the guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his ribs.

“You still playin’?” Stack asked.

Sammie nodded, stroking the neck gently. “Every damn day.”

Stack gave a small nod, respect in his eyes, “You should. That axe got blood on it.”

Sammie looked down at the guitar—the one he and Smoke had passed to him when he was just thirteen. Their father’s.

He swallowed hard.

Stack tapped the doorframe.

“Come on, Preacher Boy. Night’s young. Let’s get you blessed proper.”

And as they stepped out, the camera stayed behind for just a moment, lingering on the guitar’s worn fretboard.

The hallway behind the bar was narrow, lined with old liquor crates and dusty red curtains that swayed for no reason at all. Just past a locked door—key slid from Stack’s boot—was The Secret Room. The one with no windows. The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled like old velvet, aged whiskey, tobacco, and secrets. Thick crimson drapes hung heavy over the walls. A pull-down screen waited, curled like a tongue. In the corner, the projector sat humming quietly like it had a memory of its own. Stack lit a cigar and let the door click shut behind them. Sammie followed, carrying his guitar case, eyes darting across the room like he’d stumbled into a place grown folks didn’t talk about out loud. He tried to play it cool—but he was twenty. Curious. Alert.

And perched in the far armchair, legs spread and boots dusty, sat Rattlesnake Joe—grinning like a man who knew too much.

“Evenin’, Pretty-Slick,” Joe said with a gold-toothed grin, lifting a brown burlap sack from beside him, “Brought you some heat. And a lil’ moon blessin’ for them tender girls o’ yours.”

Stack took the sack. Set it on the sideboard beside a bottle of Bama bourbon and a stack of steel canisters.

“Let’s see what you got,” he said, voice smooth but watchful.

Joe leaned back, tipping his hat toward Sammie, “You the one he was talkin’ about? Birthday boy?”

Sammie gave a polite nod, “Yessir.”

“Well, well,” Joe chuckled, “You in for one hell of a sanctified education, son.”

Sammie squinted, “What’s a stag film anyway?”

Stack turned slowly, lips twitching around his cigar. He walked over, draped one arm around Sammie’s shoulder, and pulled him in, “It’s like church,” he said low. “Only instead o’ shoutin’, they screamin’ your name.”

Joe hooted.

“Shit, that’s good! Write that down, Pretty-Slick!”

Stack ignored him, lifting a canister off the stack. He showed it to Sammie—Reel #14: Pussy on the Phonograph—smudged label, faint red kiss mark near the edge.

“This here?” he said, handing it to Sammie like it was scripture, “A woman touchin’ herself while her own blues record spins. You ever seen a woman make herself cry with her own voice?”

Sammie flushed. Swallowed, “No sir.”

Stack smiled faintly, then clicked the projector into place.

The machine began to whir.

Joe tossed over a leather pouch of herbs—“that’s for Cordelia’s tea, and the girls’ knees,” he muttered—and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Stack watched the reel come to life, light flickering on the screen as grainy, black-and-white heat filled the room.

The figure on screen moaned. Slowly. With rhythm.

Sammie’s mouth parted. He leaned forward, guitar case still between his legs.

Joe lit up, “See that right there? That ain’t no actress. That’s a real woman. She ain’t performin’. She rememberin’. That’s what make the reel worth a damn.”

Stack nodded, still watching.

“You listen to the breath. That lil’ hitch when her fingers dip lower? That ain’t no script. That’s memory. That’s ache.”

He looked at Sammie.

“You ever had a girl touch herself to you before?”

Sammie blinked. Eyes flicked back to the screen.

Stack laughed soft, low, “Didn’t think so. But you will. Maybe sooner than you think.”

The moaning on screen grew louder. The woman’s thighs trembled. The record player needle skipped.

Joe wiped his eyes with a kerchief, “Goddamn that’s art,” he whispered.

Sammie shifted in his seat, “So…these get shown here?”

“Only for folk who know the password,” Stack said, reaching for another reel, “We call it Midnight Sermon. You sit in one of these velvet chairs, light a cigar, and let truth flicker ‘til it stick to your ribs.”

Joe pulled a flask from his boot. “I ever tell y’all about the cursed reel I found down in Plaquemine? Swear to God, the folk on it kept lookin’ at the camera like they was watchin’ me—”

“Tell it later, Joe,” Stack muttered, “Let the boy finish his first viewing.”

The screen glowed.

The moans got real.

And Sammie, breath caught in his chest, clutched the neck of the old Moore guitar—the one Smoke and Stack had given him years ago, their father’s—like it was the only holy thing left in the room.

West Ninth Street, Little Rock

The sun glared low, syrup-thick and lazy, as Stack’s flashy green and cream roadster rolled smooth down West Ninth. The chrome caught the day just right—gleaming like fresh silver, purring like a panther. Folks on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did when Elias “Stack” Moore pulled up. He parked clean in front of Del’s Shine Parlor, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His suit was pressed to perfection, tie knotted sharp at the throat. A gold toothpick rode lazy in the corner of his mouth. He turned his head just enough to speak.

“Stay here, lil cousin. I’m just makin’ a drop. Won’t be long.”

Sammie, sitting passenger, nodded, his fingers absently tracing the neck of the old guitar that lay in the backseat, strapped in like a relic. Stack stepped out and closed the door with the kind of swagger that didn’t need announcing. He moved like he owned the whole block. The gold handle of the Shine Parlor door caught the sun just before it swung closed behind him. Inside, Del’s was dim and cool, smelling of leather polish, cigar smoke, and the faintest trace of musk perfume. Delphina—the owner—sat behind the long, high counter, legs crossed, counting bills in a ruby-red slip and silk robe. Brass spit buckets glinted near old barber chairs. A phonograph spun a scratchy jazz tune in the corner. And in the back, behind a velvet curtain, murmurs from the men laying bets rolled low like thunder.

Stack tipped his hat, “Got somethin’ warm for your drop box.”

Del didn’t look up, “You always do.”

Outside, Sammie cracked the window and leaned back, watching the bustle on West Ninth through dark lashes.

Then he saw her.

Again.

Evangeline Monroe.

Same girl from earlier. Same dress—butter-yellow, soft and spring-sweet, like pound cake cooling on the sill. White gloves tugged tight to the wrist. Shiny black oxfords catching light with every step. Her hair was a flawless bob, curled under like she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She walked with two other girls, laughing about something only they knew—but when she paused to lick at the edge of a vanilla cone, Sammie forgot to breathe.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

He climbed out of the car, smoothing his slacks with one hand and checking his breath with the other. The collar of his dress shirt was popped open, no tie, sleeves rolled. His fraternity pin gleamed at his lapel—Kappa Alpha Psi, recently founded, and he wore it proud. Sammie adjusted his stance, made sure his posture said: charming, not desperate.

“Miss?”

Evangeline turned. Lips still close to that ice cream. Eyes sliding over him, then back down the cone. No smile yet. Just that curious arch in her brow.

“Twice in one day?” she said coolly, “You followin’ me now?”

Sammie chuckled, a low, warm sound, “I think it’s the other way around. You keep appearing like sunshine.”

That got the ghost of a grin. She licked slow, once, eyes on his face, “You a poet or just full of it?”

He stepped closer, “Little bit of both.”

Evangeline didn’t move. Her two friends stood off to the side, whispering, giggling behind cupped hands. One elbowed the other and whispered he’s cute, but Evangeline ignored them.

Sammie glanced down, bashful but still bold, “You from around here?”

“Born and half-raised.”

“You ever heard of The Blackline?”

That name made her eyes flicker. Not wide-eyed, not shocked—just…knowing. Like she’d heard stories behind closed doors. She leaned on one hip.

“Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”

“I’m Sammie Moore.” He held out a hand, “Stack’s blood. Smoke’s too. I just got in.”

Evangeline didn’t take his hand. She licked the ice cream again, then said, “You a Moore? That explains the mouth.”

He laughed, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” she said, one brow lifted.

“Well…maybe you like a little danger.”

“You maybe ain’t as smooth as you think.”

He leaned close enough for her to catch a breath of his cologne—citrus, vanilla, something boyish and clean. A college man’s scent.

Then he whispered, low like temptation, like something you weren’t supposed to repeat unless you meant it, “Three slow. Two fast. Then say: Velvet Devotion.”

That made her pause. The corner of her lip twitched, “Velvet Devotion, huh?”

Sammie nodded once, “Gets you through the front. Tomorrow. What happens after…depends on how bold you feel.”

Evangeline’s lips curved slow, “You got the tongue for a preacher.”

Sammie grinned, “Maybe I just been sinnin’ better.”

Her friends hooted behind her. One of them asked, “You gon’ invite us too, Vangie?”

Evangeline glanced back at them, then looked Sammie up and down.

“If I come…I bringin’ company.”

Sammie nodded, “Long as y’all come lookin’ this good, I ain’t got no complaints.”

She tilted her head, “What if we don’t come lookin’ good? What if we come lookin’ dangerous?”

He smirked, “Then you’ll fit right in.”

From the parlor door, Stack stepped out just in time to see the last of that smile exchanged. He raised a brow but said nothing—just tapped the side of his pocket where his cigar case sat and headed back to the car.

“C’mon, Romeo. Time to get you ready for your rites.”

Sammie nodded at Evangeline, tipped an imaginary hat, “I’ll see you soon.”

She turned without answering, hips swaying like she knew she had him.

Because she did.

THE BLACKLINE – NIGHT – WEST NINTH STREET

The night air hung low, sweet with magnolia and sin.

Stack Moore leaned against his coupe, slow-smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked sharp as a straight razor—slacks pressed, suspenders hugging his shoulders, white tank gleaming under the streetlight. His hat sat tilted just enough to show off the glint in his eye. A quiet smirk curled the corner of his mouth like he was always halfway to trouble. Behind him, The Blackline was alive, low brass and blues seeping through the walls, laughter floating past velvet curtains. A shadow moved across the stained-glass window just as Sammie disappeared inside, guitar case in hand, wide-eyed and grinning.

Stack took a drag.

Then he heard it.

Polished footsteps.

Church leather.

Turning his head just slightly, Stack watched as a black Studebaker slid to a clean stop across the street, engine purring like judgment withheld.

The driver’s door creaked open.

Out stepped Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, tall and rigid in his navy wool suit. Crisp. Sanctified. A silver pocket watch chain glinted against his vest. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, then shut the door like it had sinned. Sister Lillian exited next, already halfway up the church steps, her Bible pressed tight to her chest. She didn’t look back. Obadiah paused to speak with an older Deacon Josiah at the gate—just murmured blessings and leadership pleasantries—but his eyes…his eyes were locked on Stack.

Stack didn’t move.

Just blew a stream of smoke toward the stars.

Then, with a cocky flick of his chin and a smile that could skin a preacher alive, he spoke, “Evenin’, Rev.”

Obadiah’s jaw twitched.

He offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding once like a man humoring a snake.

“Mr. Moore. How you be?”

They stood there in silence for half a breath too long. The street hummed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lights from The Blackline pulsed behind Stack like a neon halo of temptation. Stack tilted his head, studying Obadiah like a man sizing up an old rival at a poker table.

“Can’t complain. Got a full house tonight. Blues, bourbon, and bad intentions.”

He grinned, “Gearing up for a weekend of sinnin’, you could say.”

Obadiah’s smile flattened. His hands folded at his waist, the way one might withhold a curse behind a hymn.

“The women in my congregation…they don’t protest no more.” He paused,“Figured there ain’t no use preaching to a hell den.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from Stack’s chest—genuine, easy, but edged like a switchblade.

“That’s real kind of you, Reverend. Makin’ room for the damned.”

Obadiah’s smirk returned, but now it was bitter. He turned as if to leave, but Stack’s voice cut the silence like a crack of gunfire in an old Western.

“How’s your preacher wife doing? What’s her name…uhh…” He tapped a finger to his temple, mocking thought, “Slippin’ my mind.”

Obadiah froze. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, “Marigold.”

“Ahh, yeah.” Stack snaps fingers, “Marigold. First Lady.” Stack leaned off the car now, real casual. Took another puff. Let the smoke drift slow from his nostrils as he stepped closer, boots clicking like spurs on sacred ground. He tilted his head slightly, “That ain’t who you showed up with though.”

Obadiah stiffened.

Stack could see the vein twitch in his temple. Could feel the fury coiling beneath that collar like a serpent under holy linen. But Obadiah’s voice came calm, trained, weaponized.

“My wife is a busy woman. Teaches purity. Leads young girls to righteousness. She’s an example…of what a Lady of God ought to be.”

Stack just smiled.

He didn’t say a word about how Marigold moaned when he tongued her from behind, face buried deep, nose pressed to her crack like he was trying to breathe in her sin. Didn’t mention how she trembled when he bent her over and spread her knees wide, pussy glistening and twitching like it was begging to be fed on. Didn’t speak on how her breath hitched when he whispered “Good girl” against her throat, voice thick and hungry, or how she begged—begged—for him to spank the holy right outta her, crying out every time his palm met her ass, soaking his lap like a filthy little church slut.

Nope.

Stack didn’t say a word.

He just flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath a polished heel, and turned back toward The Blackline, “You have a good night now, Reverend.” He paused, smirking over his shoulder, “Oh—and can you keep that bell tolling to a minimum? You spookin’ my girls.”