Sinful Skins Novels & Stories

Just because I didn't have the lake of fire didn't mean I couldn't punish the sinners. And when she was roasted to my heart’s content, I pulled her back, watched as she fell on her back, and took in the creation of my hand. “Ooooooh!” Her face was bright red and badly swollen. Rivers of blood were bubbling as they poured and steamed all over from the opened blood vessels. But what made me want to do a little shuffle dance was the sheets of skin sloughing off her skin, the blackened chunks of the remains of her once perfect face hitting the floor and continuing to smolder from the heat. Her once perfect face was now unrecognizable, beautifully disfigured.

So beautiful and satanic. His eyes were not coal-dark but ocean-dark, deep pools that seemed to swallow light and exude a cold, evil acumen. His sharp features were chiselled with almost supernatural precision as if a master sculptor had carved him out of pure darkness. His skin, though flawless, had an unnatural pallor, reminiscent of marble but imbued with a hint of something more menacing, like the whisper of shadows that cling to the walls of a forgotten crypt.

The marks of his fingers were imprinted on the smooth skin of the inner thighs. Rye could see his essence oozed out of the pink folds in sticky globs of opaque white. Deep inside, he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to ask forgiveness but his jealousy still ate at him. Other men used her. Old men with money to spend on drugs. Old sick men who liked debauchery. Sexually-depraved men who preyed on women like Gillian...

“For we have sinned.” The blasphemy only made me wetter. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper as he started thrusting harder. We moved together like we had been made for this. His cock hit places inside me I didn’t know existed. Every deep stroke made me moan louder. The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with our desperate gasps and whispered sins. He fucked me harder, pounding into me with raw need. The bed creaked beneath us. I was going to come again.

His hands framed her face as if he could anchor himself to her, as if she were the only proof left that he wasn’t lost to paranoia and betrayal. She melted into him, her fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer. The taste of him was heat and ruin and want, all tangled together, and for a fleeting moment the shadows around them didn’t exist. There was no footage, no betrayal, no intruder walking their halls. There was only this—skin against skin, breath against breath, the wildness of two people fighting to hold on in the middle of collapse.

His answer drifted away “How am I an example?” “Have you ever noticed? How come your skin is like a 12-year-old when in fact, you are already 24? And why does your skin radiate like a newborn baby when the sun hits? Or why your lips are still as soft and pink like a newborn, that they would probably bruise if I pinched them together” saying that, he really did pinch her lower lips between his thumb and index finger. As if agreeing with him, it drained out of the blood and turn white as she frowned in pain. She hissed and rubbed her lips when he let go.

Why wasn’t she awakening? Mortus took off his tunic, his glowing white skin littered with a few scars, but mostly tattoos of crosses and busty women. “I’ll get them covered, just for you. I’ll rip the skin from my body if that will make it better.” My arms were trying to crawl away from him, only to be pulled back to the center of the bed.

Chapter: 29. ****** Eric ogled at him, scrutinizing him. Snow's skin is so fucking beautiful each time Eric sees him it's like he is just seeing him for the first time. Skin flawless, spotless so much that it feels like a sin to mar it with his wicked touch knowing what kinds of touch he wishes to lay claim to his flawless skin. If only he knew how many bruises that skin has taken but having been blessed with the perfect body type, Snow heals each time and his skin holds nothing to remember his terrible past, just the haunting memories of it in his mind.

It has been foretold that once you begin to read the tale of Aphrodite you are unable to stop until the very end. If you are still reading, I say you are either very brave or very stupid. I pray for you... May God have mercy on your soul She had skin as dark as midnight when the moon is covered by dark night clouds; her skin is as dark as midnight when not a single star is in the sky to shine a light upon the earth; and her skin is as dark as the abyss when you fall to your death and succumb to the angel of death. Yet, the very same dark skin is as smooth as silk.

But not before he had paid for his sins. His skin was pale and grotesque. Marks laced the sickly looking surface like tattoos. He'd cut himself. He'd watched the blood drain and felt a sense of satisfaction. Watched the sin flow out of him. He'd purged himself. Purged himself of his sins. Mark after mark after mark... He'd purged and purged and purged. A part of him knew he could die but he made the marks deeper leaving them unwashed and unstitched afterwards. They smelled... Rotted. He was slowly dying.