Sinners Anonymous Book Novels & Stories

It was her fault. Tania. Tania she had met in rehab. Another woman trying to stitch herself back together under fluorescent lights and supervised group sessions. The connection formed quickly—two people who recognized the same hollow places in each other. They talked in the halls when the staff weren’t listening. They held hands several times under a blanket and shared deep secrets in the bathroom in their crave for human touch within walls where no single man breathed. Kai heard and he visited. Weeks later, Tania was gone. Official story: granted leave early. Reality: Kai’s cleaners again. Accounts erased. No one online remembered her name after a week.

He doesn’t show it to me, flipping through it himself. When he turns to show it to me, the book is named Gluttony. “I knew I’ve heard that name before. Revel is a Sin; Gluttony to be exact. Can you tell me if the man you spoke to looked like this?” he asks, leaning over to hand me the book. Swallowing nervously, I glance down at the illustration. There’s no doubting it’s him.

The dorm room was dark except for the circle of candles flickering on the floor. Elias Crowe knelt in the center of the carefully drawn summoning circle, heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The small off campus apartment smelled of old books, incense, and nervous sweat. Textbooks on demonology and forbidden occult rituals lay open around him, pages filled with notes scribbled in the margins, highlighted warnings he had mostly ignored. He had been studying the occult for months in secret. Tonight, he was finally attempting his first real summoning.

SINNER’S PRAYER (G×G) EVELYN HARPER & LUCIA VALDEZ EVE I have always known I was damned. Every Sunday I sit in the same pew, third from the back on the left, fingers worrying the rosary beads in my lap while Father Michael speaks of mortal sin and the fires that wait for the unrepentant. I nod along, my lips moving silently through the responses, but my mind is elsewhere. My gaze drifts to the stained-glass windows, to the painted lips of the female saints—lips I have imagined pressed against my own in the dark of my bedroom while I touch myself and then cry into my pillow afterward.

And he was addicted to his little girl’s tight pussy. This was only the first story in the book of our sins. There were ninety-nine more ways to damn ourselves still waiting. And I could not wait to fall even deeper.

Guilt weighed me down, and I couldn't drag my legs to the estate to see them. I knew my parents were alive and well. I intended to keep it that way – three, six, ten years from now. I got to work immediately. Now, I crossed the room wearing a simple cotton gown. "Let's see" I mumbled, bending a bit to pick up the files. I skimmed through them quietly, my eyes drinking in the content. The Sins were seven, but only six were documented. I knew of Roderick Blackstone, Sin of Greed, Fabio Rabbia, Sin of Wrath.

More and more of my juices pulled out, coating his face as he worked my clit in relentless circles. I had to admit the truth to myself, entangling myself with not just one but two of my stepbrothers was unquestionably forbidden. The weight of the situation was heavy on my conscience, and I knew I was walking on a precarious path. It was a forbidden desire that I couldn’t easily untangle, no matter how much I told myself it was wrong.

As for Rae, she searches the bookcase to see if there's anything suspicious. She pulls out the books one by one, searching the content of each book. However, there is one thing that attracts the detective's attention. Next to the bookcase is a small table, covered with brown fabric. The fabric has less dust and has more wrinkles on it as if it had only been used a few times. Rae pulls off the cover to reveal an intimidating hairless mannequin head.

After I shoved a crumpled fifty-dollar bill into his hand, I threw the door open, and zipped off toward the building, completely abandoning my balance. The stairs felt steeper than usual as I limped up them, my sore muscles protesting every step. When I reached our door, I braced myself for the usual darkness—the heavy silence of an apartment fueled by cheap beer and resentment. Instead, light spilled through the bottom crack. I pushed the door open. The small, dingy sitting room was brightly lit, and the sudden glare made me squint. But it wasn't the light that made my breath catch in my throat. It was the three heavily built men sitting on our sagging sofa.

The new inmate arrived just before lights out, escorted by two guards who looked happy to get rid of him. I watched him walk slowly, dragged by the chain that jingled lazily on his wrist and ankles. I waited at the end of the corridor, clipboard in hand, uniformed from head to bottom. “Ryan Hart,” I read aloud. “Break-in, theft, Assault. Two years. You understand the rules?” Ryan lifted his head, a slow grin. “Guess I'll learn quickly if you're teaching, warden.”