Sinners & Saints: A Collection Of Dark Romance Stories

Paige's POV 

I got a high-paying job at a club to serve as a fluffer. But since I had no idea who a fluffer was, I didn’t hesitate to ask for clarity.

My hirer didn’t hold back either; he immediately explained that, as a fluffer, my sole job is to suck performers’ cocks to help them maintain erection or arousal before they go out to perform or shoot.

My hirer told me I’d be working simultaneously in two departments: the entertainment department at the club, where all I have to do is suck the male performers’ cocks before they go on stage to strip-dance; and secondly, I’d also be handling the position of a fluffer at the p**n studio, where, as explained, all I’m expected to do is make the p**nographic film actors get hard between takes.

Now I bet you’re probably wondering what situation could’ve led me to this point, but honestly, it wasn’t some wild, reckless decision or a desperate last resort. It was just one of those strange turns life takes when you’re standing at a crossroads, unsure of where you belong, and something unexpected offers you a way forward—no matter how unconventional it seems.

Everything started ten years ago, when I was just fifteen, still clinging to the last pieces of childhood, while my elder sister, April, was nineteen and already carrying more weight than anyone her age should. When our mother died, it felt like the world didn’t just crack—it collapsed completely.

We had nowhere to go. No relatives willing to take us in, no safety net waiting beneath us. So we went to the only place we could—the house of a man who was supposed to be our guardian. Our stepfather.

At first, it seemed like survival—a roof, food, and, of course, a bed to lie in. But what we never understood was that sometimes survival comes with a cost we didn’t realize until it was too late.

He started with her. My sister. Every night, behind closed doors, our stepdad had forced April down and raped her all through the night until she couldn't walk any more.

Whenever he wanted to come for me, she'd always begged him to take her instead and he wouldn't hesitate, he'd spread her legs apart again and do bad things to her.

I was just fifteen and April had just turned nineteen but she protected me like she was my mother.

April would always ask me to stay quiet no matter the noises coming from the inner room where our stepdad was fucking her hard. I'd obeyed so I learned to stay quiet, to disappear into corners, to pretend I didn’t exist. She never told me anything, but I saw it in her eyes—the way something inside her was slowly breaking, piece by piece.

Then one night, he came home drunk—worse than usual. Careless. And that was the night everything changed. He'd fucked my sister without a condom and just a few weeks later, April found out she was pregnant.

Before we could even begin to understand what that meant, fate twisted the knife one more time. Our stepfather died in a car accident, leaving behind a mess he’d never have to face.

A month later after his death, my sister went into labor.

I remember holding her hand, telling her everything would be okay—even though I didn’t believe it myself. I remember the screams. The blood. The fear.

And then… silence.

April gave birth to a baby girl but she died before she could even hold her own child. My sister took her last breath right there in my arms while her new born child cried all night because there was no mother to breastfeed her.

And just like that, I lost April.

At sixteen, I became everything I wasn’t ready to be—a mother, a provider, and a protector. That baby… she became my whole world. The only piece of my sister I had left. I named her after my sister, April, because it meant grace, and I needed something in our lives to mean that.

I raised her the only way I knew how—figuring things out as I went, making mistakes, surviving on instincts and desperation. And somehow, despite everything, she grew. She laughed. She lived.

April is ten now. Or rather, she will be ten soon…I think in three or four months' time.

We were happy together but for the past year, one thing just couldn't complete our happiness. April had barely been able to live like a child. Hospitals became our second home. The smell of antiseptic replaced the warmth of laughter. Doctors’ voices replaced bedtime stories.

They said it was dilated cardiomyopathy—a condition where her heart had grown weak and enlarged, struggling to pump blood the way it should. At first, it was just fatigue. Then breathlessness. Then nights where she couldn’t sleep because it felt like her own chest was working against her.

Now, it’s worse.

April needs surgery. A complicated one. The kind that doesn’t wait. The kind that comes with numbers I can’t even bring myself to say out loud.

And the cruelest part? It’s treatable—fixable—only if you have the money. So here I am.

Doing what I never imagined I would. Crossing lines I once swore I’d never even approach. Not because I want to—but because I don’t have the luxury of pride anymore.

Because somewhere in a hospital bed, a little girl is still holding on.

And I refuse to let her go.

And at this point, I swear I'd go as far as assassinating the state governor just to lay my hands on that money that'll help me to pay for April's surgery. 

That girl is my daughter, she's my life. She's the one thing keeping me alive and stronger everyday, so how am I supposed to stand by and watch her suffer when I could simply suck a few cocks and get paid madly?