GRRRRR…

Whatever's wrong with me, I will take to bed. I give in so easy, nature chews on me, little death like lead. Poisonous and heavy. It has always been this way. 

The narrow mattress creaked beneath you as you shifted, the thin sheet clinging to the damp skin of your thighs. Moonlight bled through the single high window, silvering the edges of the wooden crucifix above your headboard and catching on the small gold cross resting cool against the hollow of your throat. Your rosary beads lay tangled between your fingers, their worn edges pressing familiar indentations into your palm. You had worn the same modest white lace slip you always chose for sleep, something simple, something that covered what needed covering, yet tonight it felt like an accusation against your body, the delicate fabric grown damp where it clung to the small of your back and the curve of your breasts.

Tears tracked hot down your temples and into your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut, lips moving in the old, familiar rhythm you had recited since you were small enough to kneel on a hassock.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Your voice fractured on the next line. The words tasted like ash. Because even as you prayed, images flickered behind your eyelids, unbidden, merciless. The soft line of a woman’s shoulder in the market square last week. The low timbre of a laugh that had curled low in your stomach during evening Mass. The way another sister’s habit had shifted when she reached for a hymnal, revealing the elegant column of her neck. Shame flooded you, thick and choking, and you curled tighter around the rosary, knuckles whitening.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

You were the sinner. You, who had taken vows, who spent your days in the cool stone hush of the church, guiding the faithful into the confessional, listening to their whispered failings while your own gnawed at you like rot beneath skin. You had never strayed, not in body. But in mind? The thoughts came at night like this, insistent and fevered, leaving you aching between your legs with a need you could not name without damning yourself further. Onanism had become your secret shame more than once, fingers moving in guilty silence beneath the sheet until release left you hollow and weeping.

You pressed the crucifix harder against your sternum, metal biting into flesh. “Forgive me,” you breathed, the plea raw. “Fix me. Take this sickness from me. I do not want to be impure. I do not want these thoughts. Make me clean again, Lord. Please. I am so tired of fighting.”

The room offered no answer except the distant creak of old timbers and the faint scent of incense lingering from evening prayers. Your breathing hitched, ragged, as fresh tears spilled. The lace at your hips had ridden up; you tugged it down with trembling fingers, as if propriety could still save you. Your body, traitorous and warm, refused to quiet. Heat pooled low in your belly, a slow throb that matched the frantic beat of your heart. You rolled onto your side, knees drawn up, rosary clutched like a lifeline, and tried to will the desire away through sheer force of will and whispered Latin.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” you murmured, the words tumbling faster now, desperate, as if volume alone might drown the pulse between your thighs. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. But the prayer snagged on the memory of smooth skin glimpsed at the convent laundry, the way fabric had slipped over a collarbone and left your mouth dry. You bit down on your lower lip until copper bloomed, the sharp sting a small penance. “Lead us not into temptation,” you gasped, voice cracking, “but deliver us from evil.”

Deliver you. You needed deliverance more than any soul you had ever counseled through the latticed screen of the confessional. There, in the dim anonymity of that wooden booth, you offered absolution with steady hands and measured counsel. Here, alone in the narrow cell of your room, you unraveled. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking friction that only deepened the ache, and a broken sob escaped you. The rosary beads dug crescents into your palm as you rocked slightly, the motion unconscious, shameful.

“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,” you whispered, echoing the ancient rite, though the words felt profane on your tongue tonight. You had chosen this life precisely to escape such frailty, the world beyond the convent walls was full of temptations, of flesh and freedom and choices that led souls to ruin. Yet the frailty lived inside you, blooming in the dark hours like nightshade. Your free hand drifted downward before you caught it, nails scraping your own wrist in rebuke. The cross at your throat shifted with each heaving breath, a cold reminder against fevered skin.

You repeated the Hail Mary again, then again, the cadence fracturing into something closer to incantation than devotion. Tears soaked the thin pillow beneath your cheek. The air in the room felt heavier, thick with the salt of your crying and the faint musk of your body’s betrayal. How many nights had you lain like this, bargaining with heaven for a purity you feared was already forfeit? The thoughts came unbidden: the curve of a hip beneath modest skirts, the brush of fingers during the exchange of peace, the imagined press of another woman’s mouth, soft, insistent, knowing, against the hollow of your throat where your cross now rested.

“I am yours,” you choked out, the declaration meant for God but warped by the heat crawling through your veins. “Make me yours alone. Purge this from me. I beg you, break me if you must, but do not let me fall.” Your shoulders shook with the force of your weeping, the rosary slipping through sweat-slick fingers only to be clutched tighter. The lace slip had twisted again, riding high on your thighs, and you did not have the strength to pull it down this time. The cool night air kissed exposed skin, a mockery of relief.

Outside, the convent slept in its usual solemn quiet, bells silent until matins. Inside your chest, a storm raged, guilt and longing braided so tightly you could no longer separate them. You pressed your face into the pillow to muffle another sob, the fabric muffling your continued whispers. Prayer after prayer spilled from you, each one laced with the terror that this time, heaven might not answer. That this corruption ran too deep, that the woman you were supposed to be had already begun to fracture under the weight of wants you could not name aloud.

You lay there for what felt like hours, body taut and trembling, rosary wound so tightly around your fingers that the circulation faltered. The ache did not ebb. It only sharpened, a living thing that fed on your resistance. And still you prayed, voice hoarse and small in the darkness, clinging to the cross at your throat as though it might yet anchor you against the tide pulling you under.

The night bled into a gray dawn, leaving you hollow-eyed and aching. Sleep had come in fitful snatches, fractured by half-remembered prayers and the persistent thrum of your body’s unrest. By the time the bells tolled for morning Mass, you had already scrubbed your face raw with cold water from the basin, hoping the redness might pass for pious devotion rather than the evidence of hours spent unraveling. Your father’s daughter. That truth sat heavier than the gold cross at your throat this morning. The priest’s only child, raised beneath the steeple’s shadow, top of every catechism class, the quiet girl who organized the altar flowers without being asked, who carried soup to the elderly after every Sunday service, who had never once missed a feast day or a vigil. Sweet. Timid. Good. Everyone said so. 

You had always been good.

And now you were sick.

The church nave smelled of polished oak and lingering myrrh as you knelt beside your father in the front pew, the stone floor pressing cold through the thin fabric of your habit. Sunlight slanted through stained glass, painting fractured jewels across your clasped hands. Your father’s brow furrowed in gentle concern as you clutched at his sleeve, fresh tears slipping free despite your best efforts to contain them.

“Papa,” you whispered, voice small and trembling, the same voice that had once recited Scripture flawlessly at age seven. “There is something wrong with me. Deeply wrong. I—I am ill. In my mind. In my soul. It feels like a fever that will not break, but it is worse. Something is inside me, twisting everything. A demon, perhaps, or some sickness no doctor can name. Please. You must help me. Pray with me. I have tried—God knows I have tried—but I cannot stop the thoughts. I am so afraid I am tainted. That I am no longer pure.”

Your fingers dug into the fabric of his cassock, knuckles pale. You rocked slightly on your knees, the rosary wound tight around your wrist like a binding. Tears fell freely now, spotting the stone beneath you. You looked every inch the broken lamb, shoulders hunched, lower lip caught between your teeth to stifle a sob, eyes wide with genuine terror. “I have always been good,” you begged, the words spilling out in a rush. “Haven’t I? Tell me I have been good. But this… this sickness. It comes at night and I cannot fight it alone. Cure me. Exorcise it if you must. Anything. I would rather die pure than live like this.”

Your father’s hand settled on your shoulder, warm and steady, the same hand that had baptized half the town. He studied your flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat at your hairline, and let out a soft sigh laced with fond exasperation. “My child, you are working yourself into a state again. A fever, perhaps, your skin is warm. You have always been so diligent, so sensitive to the Lord’s call. This is only the body’s frailty after too many late nights helping with the accounts and the poor baskets. Rest. Take some broth. The Lord does not test His most faithful with demons over every stray thought.”

He patted your shoulder once, already turning his attention toward the approaching deacon with parish matters. His dismissal landed like a stone in still water, gentle, practical, utterly missing the chasm opening inside you. You bowed your head lower, another silent prayer forming on your lips, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Good girls did not crumble in the house of God. Good girls did not harbor such rot.

A few rows back, near the side altar dedicated to the Virgin, a woman stood lighting a votive candle. Her movements were unhurried, almost reverent in their economy, fingers steady as she touched the taper to the wick, the small flame blooming to life. She was striking in an effortless way: dark hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders, athletic grace visible even beneath simple clothes that suggested she belonged more to the world outside these walls than within them. Nikki. The name floated through parish gossip occasionally, Nikki Bella, the one who lived loudly, who smiled easily and asked few questions about doctrine. She came rarely, lit her candle, and left without drawing attention. A sinner, perhaps, but one who still sought small sparks of grace.

She had not meant to linger. But the sound of quiet weeping, the urgent cadence of a young woman’s plea to her father, pulled her gaze. Nikki’s eyes, sharp, dark, and far more observant than her gentle expression let on, found you there on your knees. The way your body curled inward, protective and pleading. The raw desperation in your voice as you confessed to being sick, tainted, wrong. The perfect picture of a preacher’s daughter unraveling under some invisible weight.

Something clicked behind Nikki’s calm facade. A subtle shift in her posture, the faintest tilt of her head as she watched you clutch at your father’s sleeve like a lifeline. Her lips parted just slightly, then pressed together. She did not smile. She did not approach. She simply finished lighting the candle, murmured something too low to carry, and let her gaze linger a moment longer on the trembling line of your neck, the damp trail of tears on your cheek, the way your habit hid a body clearly at war with itself.

Interesting, she thought. The word settled warm and decisive in her chest. She would have you, one way or another. The certainty bloomed quiet and inevitable, like the candle flame she had just kindled. For now, she turned away, footsteps soft against the stone as she slipped out into the morning light, leaving only the faint scent of melted wax behind.

Nikki stepped out of the church into the crisp morning air, the heavy oak door whispering shut behind her like a secret. Sunlight caught the faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone from the walk over, and she tilted her face upward for a moment, letting the warmth settle across her skin. To the handful of townsfolk nodding hello on the street, old Mrs. Callahan sweeping her stoop, a pair of laborers hauling crates, she offered the same easy, dimpled smile she always did. Just Nikki. The woman who ran a small fitness studio on the edge of town, who laughed too loud at the pub on Friday nights, who had a string of ex-lovers and zero interest in settling down. Normal. Harmless, even.

She didn’t linger on the thought of sin. Sin was for people who still believed the rules applied. Nikki had shed that particular weight years ago, the way one might peel off a too-tight coat. God, church, eternal damnation, they were stories other people told themselves to keep the dark at bay. She preferred the tangible; the burn of muscle after a hard session, the taste of good whiskey, the sharp thrill of a woman’s gasp when she pressed just the right way. Life was for living, not for groveling.

Still, the old rituals lingered in small habits. The candle. The quiet pause in sacred space. There was something grounding about it, even if she didn’t buy the metaphysics. And today, that small pause had handed her something far more compelling than absolution.

She walked slowly down the cobbled path away from the church, boots scuffing softly against stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The image of you refused to fade; crumpled on your knees in that starched habit, voice cracking as you begged your father, the priest, for deliverance from the sickness rotting your mind. Those wide, tear-bright eyes. The way your shoulders drew inward, small and trembling, as if you could physically hold yourself together through sheer force of will. The preacher’s daughter. Everyone knew the stories. The perfect girl. The one who never faltered, never questioned, never strayed.

A low pulse of heat stirred in Nikki’s core at the memory.

She liked the imbalance. Craved it, really, the delicious wrongness of it. Here was a woman raised in the very marrow of sanctity, every breath measured against divine expectation, every kindness catalogued as proof of her goodness. And Nikki… Nikki wanted to ruin that. Not cruelly. Not all at once. But deliberately. Slowly. To watch that pristine surface crack under the weight of something real, something hungry and human and hers. To see those trembling hands, hands that clutched rosaries and tended altars, learn to reach for skin instead of salvation. To corrupt the untouchable until the very idea of purity felt like a distant, laughable memory.

Her lips curved faintly as she turned the corner, the church steeple shrinking behind her. She could still hear the echo of your desperate pleas in her mind, the raw edge of fear and shame. It wasn’t pity that moved through her. It was hunger. The kind that settled deep and patient. She wouldn’t approach you today. Not tomorrow, either. The chase, the slow unraveling, that was part of the pleasure. Power wasn’t in the taking alone. It was in watching someone so thoroughly convinced of their own brokenness begin to wonder if the breaking might feel like freedom.

Nikki exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she continued down the street. Just a normal woman, out for a walk on a quiet morning. No one would suspect the quiet calculations forming behind her calm expression. No one would guess how vividly she could already picture you, sweet, timid, good, coming apart beneath her hands.

She smiled again, softer this time, and kept walking.

The hours after morning Mass stretched like a fever dream you could not wake from. Your father had pressed a bowl of thin broth into your hands in the rectory kitchen, murmuring something about rest and hydration, his touch paternal and certain. You sat at the scarred wooden table, spoon hovering above the steaming liquid, but each attempt to swallow sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. The broth tasted of nothing but salt and regret. Every time you closed your eyes, fragments of the night returned: the damp cling of lace against overheated skin, the frantic rhythm of your own whispered prayers, the insistent ache that refused to be prayed away. Your stomach twisted at the memory, as though your body itself rejected the weakness you had displayed in the dark.

You were a mess, hands trembling so badly the spoon clattered against the bowl’s edge, eyes red-rimmed and distant. A few parishioners passed through the kitchen on their way to help with the day’s tasks, offering soft smiles and concerned glances. You returned them with the same timid sweetness you had perfected over years of practice, murmuring assurances that you were only a little under the weather. Inside, shame coiled tighter. How could the preacher’s daughter, the girl who had memorized entire books of the Bible before her thirteenth birthday, the one who stayed late to polish the candlesticks until they gleamed, harbor such filth? You felt genuinely ill, as if the thoughts themselves were a contagion spreading through your blood.

Eventually you pushed the half-empty bowl away, the broth now cold and congealing, and excused yourself with a murmur about needing air. Your legs felt leaden as you made your way back through the quiet corridors of the convent wing, the hem of your habit brushing softly against the stone floors. Once inside your small room, you shut the door with a click that sounded too final. The narrow bed still bore the faint imprint of your restless night. You sank to your knees beside it without hesitation, the wood biting into your bones through the thin layer of fabric.

The rosary was in your hands before you consciously reached for it. Beads clicked together in a familiar, soothing rhythm as you bowed your head, forehead nearly touching the mattress. “Hail Mary, full of grace…” The words came steadier now, practiced and relentless. You poured every ounce of will into them, repeating the prayers in an unbroken litany—Our Father, Glory Be, Act of Contrition—until your voice grew hoarse and your knees ached. You begged again for cleansing, for the sickness to be lifted, for the strange heat that still lingered low in your belly to be extinguished like a sinful candle.

And slowly, deliberately, you convinced yourself it had worked.

The thoughts had receded. The images of soft shoulders and low laughter and forbidden touches blurred at the edges, pushed back by the sheer volume of your devotion. You were good again. You had to be. The Lord had heard you this time; He always did for those who tried hard enough. A fragile calm settled over you like a thin veil, not quite warm but enough to stop the trembling. You even managed a small, watery smile as you rose from the floor, brushing dust from your habit with careful fingers. The cross at your throat caught the afternoon light, cool and reassuring. See? You were fine. Pure. The preacher’s daughter, ever faithful.

You told yourself this again and again as you moved through the rest of the afternoon, helping sort donations in the church hall, offering gentle smiles to the elderly women who praised your devotion, arranging flowers on the altar with precise, loving hands. The lie tasted sweet on your tongue, like the first real relief you had felt in days. The feelings were gone. They had to be. As long as you kept repeating it, the illusion held, wrapping you in a brittle kind of peace that let you breathe a little easier.

They were not gone, of course. Not truly. They waited beneath the surface, patient and quiet, like embers banked under ash, ready to flare again the moment your vigilance slipped. But for now, the self-deception was enough. It let you be good. It let you be happy. Or at least the closest thing to it you could allow yourself.

Three days and nights passed in a fragile, self-woven calm. You moved through them like a woman balancing on thin ice, careful not to look down. Mornings began with longer prayers, afternoons with tireless service, polishing pews until your reflection gleamed back at you, folding linens with precise creases, offering quiet counsel to those who sought it in the nave. Nights you fell into bed exhausted, rosary still wound loosely around your wrist, whispering thanks for deliverance until sleep claimed you. The thoughts stayed buried. You told yourself this was victory. The sickness had passed. You were whole again, the good daughter, the steady hand at the heart of the parish.

On the fourth day the church lay quiet, midweek stillness wrapped around its stone walls like a shroud. Dust motes drifted in shafts of pale light filtering through the high windows. You moved among the pews with a soft cloth in hand, wiping away imaginary smudges, straightening hymnals that needed no straightening. The tasks were small, repetitive, soothing. Your habit whispered against the floor as you worked, the gold cross at your throat catching occasional glints of sun. For the first time in weeks, your shoulders sat relaxed, your breathing even.

The sound of the heavy door opening pulled your attention. Footsteps echoed, measured, confident, before a woman stepped into view near the entrance. Nikki. You recognized her from the occasional glimpses during services or her quiet visits to the side altar. She carried herself with an easy grace, dark hair loosely tied back, a simple jacket slung over one shoulder. Nothing about her suggested threat or strangeness; she simply looked like someone who belonged to the daylight world beyond these walls.

She spotted you and offered a warm, unhurried smile that reached her eyes. “Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting. It’s so peaceful in here today. I didn’t want to break the quiet, but I saw you working and thought I’d say hello properly for once.”

Her voice was low and smooth, carrying a natural cadence that invited listening rather than demanding it. You straightened, cloth still clutched in your fingers, and returned the smile with the timid politeness that came instinctively. “Not at all. Welcome. Is there… something I can help you with?”

Nikki shook her head, stepping closer but stopping at a respectful distance, her posture open and relaxed. She leaned one hip lightly against the end of a pew, as if settling in for an easy conversation rather than business. “Nothing official. I’ve seen you around—always helping, always here. You’re the priest’s daughter, right? The one everyone speaks so highly of.” Her gaze held yours with genuine curiosity, the corners of her mouth lifting just a fraction. “It must be nice, having a place that feels like home this completely. Most of us wander in and out. You seem… rooted.”

The words settled over you like a gentle breeze after stagnant air. There was no judgment in them, only quiet interest. You felt something in your chest loosen, a refreshing warmth you hadn’t realized you’d missed. For a few minutes the conversation flowed easily, her asking about the upcoming feast day preparations, you answering with soft enthusiasm about the flower arrangements and the choir. She listened attentively, head tilted, nodding in places, her laughter low and appreciative when you shyly mentioned a small mishap with the incense last week. She seemed so kind, so straightforward, the kind of person who made the world feel a little less heavy.

At one point she glanced toward the confessional booth tucked in the corner, her expression shifting to something almost concerned, though her tone stayed light. “That must be heavy work sometimes—sitting in there, carrying everyone else’s burdens. Listening to all the things people are afraid to say out loud.” Her eyes flicked back to you, warm and steady. “You ever get the sense some confessions are more about what’s left unsaid? The things that linger under the surface, waiting for the right… touch to bring them into the light?”

The comment slipped in so subtly, wrapped in layers of innocent empathy, that it registered only as a vague, fleeting warmth low in your stomach, something your conscious mind dismissed as nothing more than shared understanding. You blinked, a faint flush touching your cheeks, but nodded earnestly. “It can be. But it’s a privilege. Helping others find peace.”

Nikki’s smile softened further, almost tender. “You’re good at that, I can tell. The peace part.” She lingered a moment longer, then straightened with a small sigh. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello. Thank you for the chat—it was refreshing.”

She turned then, heading toward the side altar as she always did. You watched her light a single votive candle, the flame flaring briefly under her steady fingers. She stood there quietly for a beat, head bowed in what might have been reflection, before offering you one last gentle nod across the nave and slipping out the door.

The church fell quiet again. You stood among the pews for a long moment, cloth forgotten in your hand, feeling strangely steadier than you had in days. The conversation had left a pleasant afterglow, like sunlight on skin after a long winter. Whatever small, unspoken undercurrent had brushed against you remained far beneath awareness, nothing more than a fleeting sense of connection with someone who saw you as simply kind, simply present. You returned to your tasks with lighter hands, the fragile peace reinforced by this unexpected, ordinary kindness. For now, that was enough.

Nikki walked the short distance home with her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, the afternoon sun warm against her back and the faintest smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The conversation lingered in her mind like the aftertaste of something rich and forbidden. Your voice, soft, earnest, threaded with that careful politeness, had settled something inside her. The way you had listened so intently, head tilted just so, cheeks faintly pink when she had offered the smallest, most innocuous observation about the weight of confessions. You had no idea. Not a single flicker of recognition had crossed your face.

That was what decided it for her.

By the time she reached her front door, the decision had crystallized into something solid and inevitable. She had to ruin you. Not destroy, nothing so crude. But taint. Introduce a small, deliberate fracture into that flawless purity. The idea should have felt monstrous. It didn’t. It felt like hunger finally given a name. You were too good. Too sweetly naive in the way you answered every question as though the world still made perfect sense inside the walls of that church. Too perfect in your posture, your careful hands, the way your eyes held genuine light when you spoke about helping others. Someone that untouched needed a little ruin. A slow, careful corruption that would make you question everything you had ever been taught to fear. And Nikki wanted to be the one to place it there.

She didn’t feel guilty. She didn’t even feel wicked in the way the old stories warned about. She simply felt… right. Pleased in a deep, private way that hummed through her chest as she stepped inside and shrugged off her jacket.

John was already in the kitchen, the scent of garlic and seared meat drifting through the apartment. He glanced up from the stove with a familiar grin. “Hey. You’re home early. Good day?”

“Quiet,” she answered, crossing the room to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Her voice carried its usual easy warmth. “Went by the church for a minute. Lit a candle. Talked to the priest’s daughter for a bit, she was tidying up. Sweet girl. Very… dedicated.”

John chuckled, stirring the pan. “Sounds about right for that place. You staying for dinner or heading out again?”

“Staying.” Nikki leaned against the counter, watching him work with the same casual affection she always showed. The conversation moved easily, plans for the weekend, something about his work, a story from the gym. She laughed at the right moments, asked the right questions, poured them both a glass of wine with steady hands.

All the while her mind drifted elsewhere.

She pictured you on your knees again, but not in prayer this time. Pictured the way that your white lace might ride up under careful hands. Pictured your soft, trembling voice trying to form a prayer while your body learned something entirely new. The thought sent a slow, satisfied heat curling low in her stomach. She took a sip of wine and smiled across the table at John as he set their plates down, listening to him talk about some minor frustration from his day. She nodded, offered the appropriate sympathy, even reached over to squeeze his hand once.

Inside, she was already mapping the first careful steps. How to approach you again without startling the delicate creature you were. How to let the suggestion linger just long enough for your subconscious to begin its quiet betrayal. How to watch the first hairline crack appear in all that perfect goodness.

She ate her dinner with genuine appetite, complimented the meal, and helped clear the table afterward. When John pulled her into his arms later on the couch, she kissed him back with the same unhurried warmth she always did. Her body responded the way it always had, familiar, comfortable, easy.

But her mind stayed elsewhere.

You, sweet and trembling and so terribly, beautifully pure. She would change that. Slowly.

The evening settled over the convent like a benediction. After the quiet conversation in the nave, you had moved through the remaining hours of your duties with a lightness that felt almost foreign after weeks of inner turmoil. The simple tasks, folding the altar linens into precise squares, refilling the holy water fonts, offering a gentle word to the sacristan as he locked the side doors, left no room for the old restlessness. Your mind stayed clear, focused on the steady rhythm of service and gratitude.

By the time you returned to your small room, the sun had dipped low, painting the narrow window in soft amber. You knelt at the side of your bed without hesitation, the rosary already warm from your pocket. The beads clicked softly between your fingers as you began the familiar prayers, each word carrying more weight and less strain than it had in recent nights. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Your voice remained steady, unfractured. There was no heat beneath your skin, no unwelcome images flickering behind closed eyes. Only the cool weight of the cross against your sternum and the faint scent of beeswax and old wood that always lingered in the room.

You prayed longer than usual, letting the words wash over you until they became a quiet current carrying away the last traces of doubt. You thanked God for the strength He had granted you to endure the test. You thanked Him for restoring the peace you had feared was lost forever. The sickness, the strange, fevered thoughts that had once left you weeping into your pillow, felt distant now, like a nightmare that dissolves upon waking. You were whole again. Cured. The evil that had haunted your nights had been lifted through prayer and the simple, stubborn will to remain good.

Your mother’s blessing seemed to rest on you tonight, the memory of her gentle hands smoothing your hair before bedtime when you were small, her soft voice reminding you that the Lord watches over His faithful daughters. You had always tried to honor that. Tonight, it felt as though you had succeeded once more.

When you finally rose from your knees, your legs carried only the pleasant ache of prolonged devotion rather than the tight coil of shame. You changed into the modest white lace slip with unhurried movements, the fabric cool and familiar against your skin. No dampness clung to it tonight. No traitorous warmth pooled low in your belly. You slipped beneath the thin sheet, the narrow mattress creaking softly beneath your weight, and reached once more for the rosary. It rested on the pillow beside you like a quiet companion.

Before sleep claimed you, you whispered one last prayer into the dim room, voice barely above a breath.

“Blessed Mother, thank you for freeing me from the temporary suffering of temptation. Thank you for returning me to the path. Keep me steady. Keep me pure. I am yours.”

The words settled like a final seal. You turned onto your side, one hand loosely curled around the beads, the other resting over the small gold cross at your throat. For the first time in longer than you could clearly remember, your breathing evened without effort. No tears tracked down your temples. No desperate pleas clawed at the inside of your chest. The room held only the faint creak of settling timbers and the distant, comforting toll of the evening bell.

You drifted into sleep wrapped in a fragile, luminous peace, satiated by faith, by the quiet certainty that the Lord had heard you and answered. The good daughter. The faithful one. Whole once more.

The rest of the week unfolded in a quiet, luminous haze of fulfillment. You moved through your studies and duties with a renewed steadiness, as though the Blessed Mother had indeed reached down and touched something raw and trembling inside your chest, smoothing it into place. Mornings began with longer, unhurried prayers before the small crucifix in your room. Afternoons passed in the gentle rhythm of service, copying notes from the old theological texts in the parish library, helping prepare the children’s catechism lessons with patient repetition, arranging fresh flowers on the side altar until their scent filled the cool stone air. You felt whole. The sickness that had once clawed at you in the dark had receded so completely that you could almost believe it had never existed at all. Each night you slept deeply, rosary in hand, waking with the same soft sense of gratitude.

Sunday arrived bright and clear. The nave filled slowly with the familiar faces of the parish, the low murmur of greetings and the rustle of hymnals rising like a gentle tide. You took your usual place in the very back pew, a little apart from the main congregation, where you could slip in and out quietly if needed to assist with the altar or the collection. The organ began its prelude, the notes swelling and then settling into the opening hymn.

You knelt as the priest processed in, the familiar weight of the liturgy wrapping around you like a familiar garment.

 “I confess to almighty God  

 and to you, my brothers and sisters,  

 that I have greatly sinned,  

 in my thoughts and in my words,  

 in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,  

 through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault;  

 therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,  

 all the Angels and Saints,  

 and you, my brothers and sisters,  

 to pray for me to the Lord our God.”

The words settled over you with particular weight today. You bowed your head lower, the small gold cross cool against your skin.

The first reading was from the letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, and you listened with the same quiet attentiveness you had always brought to the Word.

 “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.  

 Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.  

 So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand.  

 For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being,  

 but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind  

 and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members.  

 Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?  

 Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

You felt the old familiar ache of recognition, not the sharp, shameful one from before, but a gentler echo. You had been delivered. The war had quieted. You offered a silent prayer of thanks as the psalm response rose from the congregation.

The Gospel was proclaimed, and then the homily began, the priest’s voice steady and measured as he spoke of the daily struggle to remain faithful, of the small temptations that test even the most devoted hearts. You listened with your hands folded neatly in your lap, the hem of your habit brushing the floor.

It was during the Creed that the pew beside you shifted slightly. A familiar presence slipped in with quiet grace, Nikki, moving as though she had sat there every Sunday of her life. She offered you a small, genuine smile as she settled, her shoulder brushing yours for the briefest moment before she folded her hands and turned her attention forward. Nothing about the gesture felt out of place. It was simply… natural. As if the back pew had always been meant for both of you.

You returned the smile with a shy one of your own, cheeks warming faintly at the unexpected closeness, then quickly refocused on the words you had recited since childhood.

“I believe in one God, the Father almighty,  

 maker of heaven and earth,  

 of all things visible and invisible.  

 I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ,  

 the Only Begotten Son of God,  

 born of the Father before all ages…”

Nikki leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you, low and soft, almost apologetic.

“Forgive me for sitting here. It felt… right today.”

The whisper was so gentle, so honestly offered, that you only nodded once, the tips of your ears growing warm. You tried not to let your attention wander from the Creed, but the quiet presence beside you made the air feel slightly different, warmer, somehow.

Later, during the preparation of the gifts, she leaned in again, her breath barely stirring the air near your ear.

“You always look so peaceful when you’re here. It’s nice to see.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the pew. A small, anxious flutter moved through your chest, not from anything improper, but simply from the awareness that someone was speaking to you during the sacred silence of the liturgy. You should be listening. You offered her a quick, timid glance and a tiny nod, then turned your eyes back to the altar, where the priest was lifting the paten.

“Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation,  

 for through your goodness we have received the bread we offer you:  

fruit of the earth and work of human hands,  

it will become for us the bread of life.”

Nikki remained beside you through the Eucharistic Prayer, her posture respectful, her attention mostly forward. Only once more, just before the Our Father, did she speak again, her voice even softer than before.

“Thank you for letting me sit here. I won’t disturb you anymore.”

There was no teasing in it. No edge. Only quiet sincerity. You felt the same shy warmth rise again, a small, harmless flutter that made you press your lips together to keep from smiling too broadly in the middle of the holiest part of the Mass. You gave the smallest nod, eyes fixed on the altar, and whispered the familiar words with the rest of the congregation.

 “Our Father, who art in heaven,  

hallowed be thy name;  

thy kingdom come,  

thy will be done  

on earth as it is in heaven…”

The peace you had carried all week still held. Nikki’s presence felt like an unexpected but gentle addition to it rather than a disruption. When the final blessing was given and the recessional hymn began, she simply offered you one last soft smile before slipping out as quietly as she had arrived, leaving you with the lingering sense that the back pew had been just a little less lonely today.

A few days passed in the same gentle rhythm. You continued your duties with the same quiet fulfillment, the fragile peace holding steady like a candle flame protected from any draft. You did not see Nikki again. The back pew remained empty during the weekday Masses, and the side altar stayed unvisited. Life inside the church walls felt ordered once more, prayers, service, study, sleep. You told yourself this was the way things were meant to be.

On Thursday afternoon you took your place in the confessional booth for the scheduled hours of reconciliation. The small wooden compartment smelled of aged oak and faint incense that had seeped into the grain over decades. You sat on the narrow bench, the lattice screen in front of you casting a soft pattern of light and shadow across your lap. Your habit was neatly arranged, hands folded over the small book of prayers you kept for these sessions. The booth felt cooler than the nave, the air still and expectant.

The door on the other side opened and closed with a soft click. Footsteps approached. You heard the faint creak of the kneeler as the penitent settled on the other side of the screen. You could not see a face, only the vague outline of a shoulder and the suggestion of dark hair through the lattice. The voice that spoke was low, steady, and unfamiliar in this context.

“Bless me, Sister, for I have sinned.”

You gave the usual response, your own voice calm and measured from long practice. “May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow.”

There was a brief pause. Then the voice continued, quiet and measured.

“It has been… some time since my last confession. I come today because something has been weighing on me. I have sinned against purity of heart and body. I allowed impure thoughts about another woman to take root while I touched myself. I did not stop them. I let the thoughts remain while my hands moved. And afterward I felt the weight of it, the knowledge that I had given myself over to something I should have resisted.”

The words landed softly but with precision. She did not describe the thoughts in detail. She did not speak of heat or breath or the way her body had responded. She simply stated what had occurred, her tone carrying a strange, almost intimate directness.

“I feel I must repent before this sin claims more of me than it already has. Before it becomes something I no longer wish to fight.”

You shifted slightly on the bench. The lattice felt suddenly closer. A faint warmth rose in your cheeks and spread downward, settling low in your stomach in a way that made your breath catch for half a second. You pressed your hands more firmly together in your lap, the small book digging into your palms. The reaction confused you. You had heard countless confessions of this nature before, men and women alike admitting to struggles with the flesh. You had always responded with steady compassion and the appropriate prayers. This one felt different. The voice on the other side of the screen carried a quiet warmth, almost a gentleness, that made the words land differently.

You cleared your throat softly, trying to steady yourself.

“These temptations are common to the human heart,” you said, your voice coming out a fraction softer than usual. “The Lord knows our frailty. He does not abandon us when we fall.”

The penitent was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again, and this time the words carried the faintest thread of something warmer, something that brushed against the edge of your awareness without quite landing.

“I know He is merciful, Sister. But I wonder sometimes if mercy alone is enough when the mind keeps returning to the same place. When the body remembers what the soul tries to forget.”

Your pulse quickened. The heat in your cheeks deepened, and you felt a small, traitorous throb low in your belly that made you shift your thighs together beneath your habit. You did not understand it. The confession itself was not unusually graphic. The voice was calm, almost respectful. Yet something in the way she addressed you, the soft cadence, the way she lingered on the word “Sister” as though tasting it, made the small space between you feel charged in a way you could not name.

You swallowed and reached for the familiar words of counsel, but your fingers trembled slightly against the pages of the prayer book.

“Have you prayed for the strength to resist these thoughts when they come?” you asked, trying to keep your tone even.

Another pause. Then the voice, low and almost tender:

“I have. And I will continue to. But I think… sometimes the Lord sends us trials through other people. Through the very things we fear most. Don’t you think so, Sister?”

The question hung in the air between you, gentle and genuine on the surface, yet something about it made your stomach tighten. You felt suddenly too warm in the small booth. The lattice seemed to press closer. You could hear the faint sound of her breathing on the other side, steady, unhurried.

You opened your mouth to answer, but for a moment no words came. The heat in your face had spread to your neck and chest. Your heart beat faster than it should during a routine confession. You told yourself it was nothing. Simply the weight of the words themselves, the reminder of sins you had once feared in your own heart.

Still, when you finally spoke the words of absolution and penance, your voice carried a slight tremor you could not quite hide.

“Go in peace,” you said at last, the traditional close feeling strangely intimate in the quiet booth. “The Lord has forgiven you.”

On the other side of the screen, the penitent did not rise immediately. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as she remained kneeling a moment longer.

“Thank you, Sister,” she said, and the warmth in her voice lingered even after she stood and the door opened and closed again.

You sat alone in the booth for several long seconds afterward, the prayer book still clutched in your hands. Your skin felt flushed. Your breathing had not yet returned to its usual calm rhythm. You pressed one cool palm to your cheek, confused by the reaction, by the strange, low ache that had settled somewhere deep and unnamed.

You told yourself it was nothing more than the power of confession itself—the way spoken sin could stir old fears. Nothing more.

Outside the booth, the church remained quiet. The afternoon light slanted through the high windows, unchanged.

Inside, you stayed seated a little longer than necessary, waiting for the warmth in your body to fade.

The night came on heavy and close, the air in your small room thick with the lingering scent of beeswax from the evening prayers. You had returned from the confessional hours earlier still carrying a strange, unsettled warmth in your chest that you could not explain away. You had told yourself it was nothing more than the ordinary weight of hearing another soul’s struggle. You had eaten a simple supper, recited your usual evening prayers with extra fervor, and slipped into bed with the firm intention of sleep.

Sleep did not come.

Instead the thoughts returned like a tide that had only been waiting for the right moment to rise again. They began as fragments, soft, uninvited images that flickered behind your closed eyelids. The low, steady voice from the other side of the lattice. The way it had lingered on certain words. The quiet intimacy of speaking about such things in the dark, private space of the booth. Your mind supplied details the penitent had never given: the imagined press of fingers, the slow rhythm of breath, the way a woman’s body might arch when it surrendered to its own hunger.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, but the images only sharpened.

A low, insistent throb began between your legs, the same treacherous heat you had believed was gone forever. It pooled low in your belly and spread outward until your thighs pressed together of their own accord, seeking relief you refused to grant. Your breathing grew shallow. The thin sheet felt suddenly too heavy against your skin. The modest white lace slip you wore clung damply to the small of your back and the curve of your breasts, every shift of fabric a reminder of the body you were trying so desperately to master.

Fear rose fast and sharp.

You sat up abruptly, the narrow mattress creaking beneath you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes before you even reached for the rosary on the nightstand. Your hands shook as you wound the beads around your fingers, the small crucifix pressing hard into your palm.

“No,” you whispered into the dark. “No, please. Not again.”

But the thoughts would not be banished. They circled and returned, stronger for having been denied. You saw the imagined woman in your mind’s eye, faceless yet vivid, her hand moving where yours longed to move. The ache between your thighs grew sharper, a pulsing demand that made your hips shift restlessly against the mattress. Your body screamed for release, for the smallest touch that would quiet the storm. Your fingers twitched where they clutched the rosary, the urge to slip them beneath the lace so powerful it stole your breath.

You forced your hands to stay where they were.

Instead you wept.

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks and onto the thin pillow as you curled forward, shoulders shaking. The fear was worse than the desire itself, the terror that you had been fooling yourself all week, that the sickness had never truly left, only waited. You were the preacher’s daughter. You had been so good. And still the corruption found you.

You pressed the crucifix harder against your sternum until the metal bit into flesh.

“Lord, have mercy on me,” you choked out, voice cracking. “Christ, have mercy. I am weak. I am so weak.”

The words tumbled faster, desperate.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

You repeated it again and again, the familiar rhythm fracturing under the weight of fresh sobs. Between the prayers you begged in your own words, raw and unfiltered.

“Please take it away. Take this from me. I do not want it. I do not want these thoughts. I do not want this fire in my body. I am Yours—make me clean again. Break me if You must, but do not let me fall. Do not let me touch myself. Do not let me give in.”

Your thighs trembled with the effort of staying still. The ache between them had become a living thing, throbbing in time with your racing heart. Every breath dragged the lace across sensitive skin. You wanted, desperately, to press your hand there, to rub until the pressure broke and left you hollow and quiet. The temptation burned so brightly it made fresh tears spill.

You did not touch.

You prayed instead.

You rocked slightly on the bed, knees drawn up, rosary clutched so tightly the beads left marks in your palm. The crucifix at your throat shifted with every ragged breath. You wept openly now, the sound muffled against your own arm so no one else in the convent would hear the preacher’s perfect daughter coming undone in the dark.

“Deliver me from evil,” you whispered through tears. “Lead me not into temptation. I am begging You. I am so tired of fighting. Please. Please make it stop.”

The room offered no answer except the distant creak of old timbers and the faint, mocking pulse still beating low in your body. You stayed there on your knees beside the bed long after your voice grew hoarse, tears soaking the front of your slip, rosary pressed to your lips like a shield.

You would not touch.

You would pray until the night ended or until heaven itself took pity on you.

Either way, you would not fall.

The days that followed dragged like a penance you had not chosen. Guilt sat heavy in your chest from the moment you woke, thick and sour, turning every breath into an effort. The spark that had carried you through the previous week was gone. You still rose for morning prayer, still helped with the altar linens and the children’s lessons, still offered gentle smiles to those who greeted you in the nave. But the movements felt mechanical, the smiles thin and automatic. Inside you felt sick, genuinely, deeply sick, as though something rotten had taken root beneath your ribs and was slowly spreading.

You spent each morning on your knees in the small side chapel dedicated to the Blessed Mother, rosary clutched in trembling hands, tears slipping down your face before the first Hail Mary had even left your lips. The stone floor was cold and unyielding beneath you, biting into your knees through the habit, but you welcomed the discomfort. It felt like the only honest thing left.

“Mother Mary,” you whispered through sobs, voice hoarse from nights of the same desperate pleas, “I have given You everything. Every hour, every thought, every breath since I was small. I have never asked for anything but the strength to stay pure. Why has this sickness returned? Why does my body betray me when my soul only wants to serve? Heal me. Please. Take this wrongness away. I am so tired of feeling tainted. I am so tired of fighting something I do not understand.”

Your shoulders shook with the force of your weeping. You pressed your forehead to the prie-dieu, the wood cool against fevered skin, and let the tears fall freely onto the worn cushion. The gold cross at your throat grew damp where it rested against your collarbone. You stayed there long after the morning bells had rung, until your eyes were swollen and your voice cracked, begging the same thing over and over in different words, as though repetition itself might finally move heaven to pity.

On the third morning Nikki saw you.

She had come early, intending only to light her usual candle before the day began. She slipped into the nave quietly, boots soft against the stone, and paused near the pillar that partially screened the side chapel. Through the carved wooden screen she caught sight of you kneeling there, head bowed low, shoulders trembling with silent sobs. Your hands were clasped so tightly around the rosary that your knuckles had gone white. Even from a distance she could see the wet tracks on your cheeks, the way your body curled inward as though trying to protect something fragile and breaking inside.

She did not step closer. She simply watched.

Something low and hot uncoiled in her stomach at the sight.

The preacher’s perfect daughter, sweet, timid, so thoroughly devoted that she had spent her entire life trying to be good, now reduced to this. Kneeling in tears before a statue of the Virgin, begging to be healed from desires she could not even name without shame. The sight should have stirred pity. Instead it stirred something darker, something sharper. A slow pulse of heat settled between Nikki’s thighs as she observed the way your body shook, the way your fingers worried the beads like a lifeline, the raw vulnerability written in every line of your posture.

It was working.

The thought sent a quiet thrill through her. The confession she had given in the booth had done exactly what she hoped it would, planted the seed, stirred the old fears back to life. And now here you were, crumbling in the very place you had always found safety. So fragile. So beautifully, painfully pure. The urge to ruin you more deeply rose in her like hunger. She wanted to strip away every layer of that careful goodness until nothing remained but the trembling, wanting woman underneath. She wanted to watch you come apart under her hands, to hear those desperate prayers turn into something else entirely, gasps and broken pleas that had nothing to do with salvation.

Nikki’s breathing had deepened slightly. She stayed in the shadow of the pillar a moment longer, eyes fixed on the small, shaking figure in the chapel. A faint, private smile touched her mouth, soft on the surface, but carrying something far more possessive beneath it.

She did not approach. Not yet.

Instead she turned quietly and lit her candle at the side altar, the small flame catching and holding steady. When she left the church a few minutes later, her steps were unhurried, her expression calm and ordinary to anyone who might have glanced her way.

The afternoon light in the church had already begun to slant long and golden when you took your place in the confessional once more. The booth felt smaller today, the air heavier with the scent of old wood and incense that never quite faded. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, the small prayer book resting on your knees, trying to quiet the restless unease that had lingered in your chest since the last time someone had spoken of such things from the other side of the lattice.

The door opened and closed softly. Footsteps approached. You recognized the cadence before the voice even spoke, the same low, measured tone from days before. She knelt. The faint creak of the kneeler was the only sound for a moment.

“Bless me, Sister, for I have sinned.”

You gave the familiar response, your voice steady by habit even as something in your stomach tightened at the sound of hers.

“It has been a few days since my last confession,” she began, and there was a warmth in the way she said it, almost intimate, as though the two of you shared a private understanding. “I have fallen again. More deeply this time.”

She paused, and when she continued, her voice carried a subtle, almost playful thread beneath the solemnity.

“I touched myself again, Sister. Last night. In my bed, with the lights low. I let myself think about a woman—someone soft and sweet and untouched. Someone who would never expect the things I wanted to do to her.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the prayer book. You kept your face composed, the way you had been trained, even as heat began to rise in your cheeks.

She did not stop.

“I imagined her on her knees first,” Nikki said, voice lower now, almost confiding. “The way her habit might slip from one shoulder if she reached too far. I pictured her hands—small, trembling hands—trying so hard to stay folded in prayer while her body betrayed her. I touched myself the way I wanted to touch her. Slowly at first. Just my fingertips tracing over my own skin, pretending it was hers. I was already wet before I even started. I could feel it, warm and slick between my thighs. I circled my clit with two fingers, Sister, light at first, teasing myself the way I would tease her if I ever got the chance.”

A small, involuntary sound escaped you, a soft intake of breath you tried to disguise as a shift in posture. Your heart beat faster. The lattice between you suddenly felt far too thin.

Nikki continued, and you could hear the faint, rhythmic shift of fabric on the other side. She was touching herself again now, lightly, almost idly, enough to heighten her own arousal without chasing release. The knowledge settled in your stomach like something forbidden.

“I thought about pushing two fingers inside myself while I imagined pushing them inside her instead,” she said, the words measured and deliberate. “How tight she would be. How she would gasp and try to stay quiet because good girls don’t make noise when they’re being ruined. I fucked myself slowly, Sister. Deep. I could hear how wet I was—every slow thrust made this soft, obscene sound. I kept thinking about her face, how she would look if she ever let herself feel this. The way her lips would part. The way her eyes would go wide and wet when she realized she liked it.”

Your throat felt dry. You pressed your knees together beneath your habit, the movement small and instinctive. Shame and something hotter, more confusing, twisted low in your belly. You wanted to tell her to stop. You wanted to hear more. Neither impulse felt holy.

You forced your voice to remain calm, compassionate, the way a good confessor should.

“These… these are grave matters of the flesh,” you said quietly. “The Lord calls us to purity of heart and body. Have you prayed for the grace to resist these temptations when they arise?”

On the other side of the screen, Nikki let out a soft, almost amused breath. Her fingers continued their slow, lazy movement.

“I have prayed, Sister. But the thoughts keep coming. I keep wondering what it would be like to take someone so pure and make her want the very things she’s been taught to fear. To hear her pray while I touch her. To watch her fall apart and know I was the one who broke her open.”

The words landed like a spark against dry tinder. You felt your face flush hotter. Your hands trembled where they gripped the prayer book. You could hear the faint, wet sound of her touching herself now, subtle, but unmistakable in the quiet booth. It made your own body react in ways that terrified you; a deep, aching throb between your legs, a warmth that spread through your chest and down your spine.

You swallowed hard and reached for the words you had been taught.

“God’s mercy is infinite,” you managed, voice softer than you intended. “But true repentance requires a firm purpose of amendment. You must strive to turn away from these occasions of sin.”

Nikki was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again, and the flirtation in her tone was unmistakable now, gentle, almost tender, but unmistakably directed at you.

“I know, Sister. And I will try. But it’s difficult when the one I keep thinking about is so… good. So holy. It makes the fall feel almost worth it.”

You closed your eyes for half a second, fighting the way your breath had quickened. You could feel the dampness beginning to gather between your own thighs, a betrayal you refused to acknowledge. Your heart pounded with shame and fear and something else you could not name.

You forced yourself to speak the words of counsel and absolution, your voice steady even as your body trembled.

When it was over, Nikki did not rise right away. You heard her breathing, slightly heavier now, on the other side of the lattice.

“Thank you, Sister,” she said at last, and the warmth in her voice lingered like a caress. “You’ve been… very patient with me.”

She left quietly after that.

You remained in the booth long after the door had closed, the prayer book still clutched in your shaking hands, your face burning and your body aching with a need you would not, could not, name. The guilt was already rising, thick and choking.

You had shown no judgment.

You had done your duty.

And still you felt sick with the knowledge of what had been said… and with the way some small, hidden part of you had listened.

You remained in the booth long after the door on the other side had closed.

The air inside felt thicker now, charged with words that still seemed to hang in the space between the lattice and your trembling hands. You sat motionless on the narrow bench, the prayer book clutched so tightly your knuckles had gone white. Your breathing came in shallow pulls. The heat that had risen in your face and chest during her confession had not faded; it had settled low and heavy in your belly, a shameful throb that refused to quiet even now that she was gone.

Minutes passed. You told yourself you were simply collecting yourself, preparing to offer the next penitent the same steady compassion. But your stomach had begun to turn. The details she had given, slow, deliberate, intimate, played back in your mind with merciless clarity. The wet sounds. The imagined gasps. The way she had spoken of purity as something to be broken. Each memory sent another wave of heat through you, followed immediately by a cold, sickening lurch.

You pressed a hand to your mouth.

The nausea rose fast and merciless.

You stood abruptly, the prayer book slipping from your lap and landing on the bench with a soft thud. The booth felt suddenly too small, too close. You pushed open the door and stepped out into the nave, the sudden brightness of the afternoon light making you squint. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you. The stone floor seemed to tilt as you walked quickly toward the side door that led to the small garden behind the church.

The moment the cool air hit your face you doubled over.

It came without warning, a violent heave that emptied your stomach onto the grass at the edge of the path. Your body shook with the force of it, tears springing to your eyes as another wave followed. You braced one hand against the rough stone of the church wall, the other pressed to your abdomen as if you could physically hold yourself together. The taste of bile burned your throat. Your habit felt too tight across your chest, every breath ragged and shallow.

You stayed bent there for a long moment after the heaving stopped, forehead resting against the cool stone, eyes closed. Shame burned hotter than the nausea. Shame at the things she had said. Shame at the way your body had reacted to them. Shame at the fact that you had listened, had tried to respond with grace while something dark and unwanted stirred inside you.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your trembling hand and straightened slowly. Your legs felt weak. The garden was quiet, the afternoon sun gentle on the overgrown herbs and the small statue of Saint Francis near the wall. No one had seen. For that small mercy you were grateful.

Still, the sickness remained.

Not just in your stomach, but deeper, in your chest, in the hollow space behind your ribs where your faith had always lived. You had devoted your entire life to purity, to goodness, to the careful keeping of every vow and every prayer. And yet here you stood, shaking and sick, because another woman’s sins had somehow reached inside you and stirred something you could not name without damning yourself further.

You closed your eyes and drew in one slow, unsteady breath.

The nausea had passed for now.

The shame had not.

You turned and made your way back inside on unsteady legs, the taste of sickness still sharp on your tongue, the weight of everything that had been spoken in that small wooden booth pressing down on you like a judgment you could not confess to anyone, not even to God.

The evening event was a modest parish gathering after the six o’clock Mass, nothing elaborate, just coffee and simple refreshments in the parish hall, a chance for the community to linger and speak with the priest about the upcoming feast. The long tables had been set with paper plates and cups of weak punch. A few volunteers moved quietly among the folding chairs, refilling trays of cookies and arranging hymnals that had been left scattered from the service.

You tried to help.

Your hands shook as you straightened a stack of napkins for the third time. The nausea from earlier had faded into a low, persistent queasiness, but it was the deeper sickness, the one that lived behind your ribs, that refused to settle. Every time you closed your eyes you saw the lattice of the confessional. Every time someone spoke too softly you heard her voice again, low and deliberate, describing things no one should ever say inside these walls.

And then she arrived.

Nikki stepped through the double doors with that same easy grace, dark hair loose over one shoulder, a simple dark sweater making her look like any other parishioner who had simply come to linger after Mass. She scanned the room once, found you near the refreshment table, and offered a small, warm smile as she made her way over.

You felt it the moment she drew near, the shift in the air, the way your pulse jumped and your stomach twisted with something that was not entirely fear.

She stopped a respectful distance away, but close enough that her voice reached you easily over the low murmur of the room.

“Evening, Sister. Or… should I say good evening?” Her tone was light, almost teasing in its gentleness. “I saw you during Mass. You looked a little pale. Everything all right?”

You couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a second. Your hands fumbled with the edge of the tablecloth. The sight of her, standing there so calmly after everything she had said to you only hours earlier, made your chest tighten until breathing felt difficult. Heat crawled up your neck. The same shameful throb from the confessional returned, low and insistent, and the knowledge of it made fresh shame flood through you.

“I’m fine,” you managed, voice tighter than you intended. “Thank you.”

Nikki tilted her head slightly, studying you with quiet attention. She could see it clearly, the way your shoulders had drawn inward, the faint tremor in your fingers, the way you kept glancing toward the exit as though the room had suddenly become too small. You looked like someone coming apart at the seams and trying desperately to hold the pieces together with nothing but willpower.

She took one small step closer, voice dropping into something softer, more intimate.

“You don’t seem fine. If there’s anything I can do to help—”

The words sent a fresh wave of panic through you. Being near her made the images return too vividly, the slow movement of her fingers, the wet sounds she had described, the way she had spoken of breaking purity. Your body reacted before your mind could stop it: a rush of warmth between your thighs, a fluttering in your stomach that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with the very thoughts you had sworn to God you would never entertain again.

You took a half-step back, the movement sharper than you meant it to be.

“I need to go,” you said, and the words came out clipped, almost rude in their abruptness. “Please. Excuse me.”

Nikki’s expression shifted. The warmth in her eyes cooled by a fraction. She did not like the dismissal. She did not like the way you had spoken to her, as though she were something to be escaped rather than someone who had simply offered concern. A small muscle tightened in her jaw, though her voice remained calm when she answered.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

You didn’t wait for her to say anything else. You turned and slipped out through the side door that led to the garden, the same door you had used earlier to be sick. The cool evening air hit your face, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside you. Your hands were shaking again. Your heart pounded hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.

Behind you, in the parish hall, Nikki remained where she stood for a long moment, watching the door you had disappeared through. The irritation lingered, sharp and unexpected. She had not expected you to push back, even in this small, frightened way.

The parish hall felt too bright, too loud, too full of people who might see the cracks spreading across your face. You moved quickly through the side door and into the cool evening air, your steps hurried and uneven as you crossed the small garden and slipped back into the main convent wing. Your skin felt feverish beneath the habit, damp with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature. The fabric clung to your back and thighs like it was trying to suffocate you. Every step made the material shift against oversensitive skin, and the sensation only fed the rising panic clawing at your chest.

You didn’t stop until you reached your room. The door clicked shut behind you and you leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard, one hand pressed to your sternum as though you could physically hold your heart inside your body. The small space felt both too empty and too close at once. You stood there for several long seconds, shaking, before your fingers moved on their own, unbuttoning, tugging, peeling the layers away with frantic urgency.

The habit came off first, then the slip beneath it. You couldn’t bear the way the fabric had been pressing against you all evening, the way it had grown damp where your body betrayed you. By the time you were down to your simple white underwear, your breathing had turned shallow and ragged. You stood in the center of the room in nothing but the thin cotton, arms wrapped around yourself, tears already blurring your vision.

Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of panic.

You paced the short length of the room twice before sinking onto the edge of the narrow bed. Your hands trembled violently. You pressed them between your knees to still them, but the motion only made you more aware of the persistent, shameful ache between your thighs, the same heat that had flared during the confession and had refused to die even after you vomited in the garden. Your mind replayed her voice in an endless loop: the slow descriptions, the wet sounds she had admitted to making, the way she had spoken of purity as something meant to be taken apart. Each memory sent another rush of warmth through you, followed immediately by a wave of nausea and self-loathing so strong it made your stomach turn again.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Eventually your body gave out. You lay back on the thin mattress, the cool sheet a small relief against overheated skin. You stayed there in your underwear, one arm thrown over your eyes, the other clutching the gold cross that still rested against your throat. The room was quiet except for the sound of your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old building settling.

“Why?” you whispered into the dark, voice cracking on the word. Fresh tears slipped from beneath your arm and tracked down your temples into your hair. “Why, Lord? Why send this back to me? I have done everything You asked. I have given You my whole life. I have never wanted anything but to be good. Why does it keep coming back? Why does my body keep turning against me?”

The questions tumbled out again and again, broken and desperate.

“Why her voice? Why those words? Why does it make me feel this way when I have spent my whole life trying to be pure? I don’t want this. I don’t want these thoughts. I don’t want this sickness. Please take it away. Please. I am begging You.”

Your shoulders shook with silent sobs. You curled onto your side, knees drawn up toward your chest, the thin cotton of your underwear the only thing between your skin and the cool air of the room. The cross at your throat had shifted and now rested against your cheek, metal cool against fevered skin. You clutched it tighter, as if the small piece of gold could anchor you against the storm raging inside your body and mind.

You stayed there for a long time, crying quietly into the pillow, asking the same questions over and over until your voice grew hoarse and the tears finally began to slow. The panic had ebbed into something heavier, exhaustion laced with a fear so deep it felt like it might never leave.

You did not pray the rosary that night.

You simply lay there in the dark, half-dressed and trembling, whispering the same broken plea into the empty room until sleep finally claimed you out of sheer emotional exhaustion.

The morning light crept pale and thin through the high window, silvering the edge of the wooden crucifix above your headboard. You woke with a gasp, the remnants of the dream still clinging to you like damp silk against overheated skin.

It had been filthy.

In the dream you had been on your knees, not in prayer, but on the cold stone floor of the confessional itself. A woman’s hand had been in your hair, gentle but insistent, guiding your head forward while her other hand worked between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. You had heard your own voice in the dream, soft, broken, trying and failing to form the words of the Hail Mary while fingers pressed deeper, while a low, knowing voice whispered against your ear that purity was only beautiful when it was being taken apart. The dream had been merciless in its detail: the wet sound of skin on skin, the way your hips had bucked against the touch you both craved and feared, the way you had sobbed the name of the Lord even as pleasure crested and broke inside you.

You woke with your thighs pressed tightly together and a deep, aching throb between your legs that bordered on pain.

You were soaked.

The thin cotton of your underwear clung to you, thoroughly drenched with arousal that had built through the night. The moment you shifted, the fabric dragged against oversensitive flesh and sent a sharp jolt of need through your entire body. Your clit pulsed, swollen and insistent, and the sensation made fresh tears spring to your eyes. You were so wet it hurt—slick and hot and throbbing with a hunger you had never allowed yourself to feel while awake.

Shame crashed over you in a violent wave.

You sat up too quickly, the narrow mattress creaking beneath you. Your hands flew to your face, pressing hard against your burning cheeks as if you could physically push the memory of the dream away. But it lingered, vivid, obscene, and unmistakably centered on the same low, steady voice that had spoken to you from the other side of the lattice only yesterday.

“No,” you whispered, voice already cracking. “No, please. Not this. Not her.”

You reached for the rosary with trembling fingers, the beads clicking together in frantic rhythm as you clutched them to your chest. Tears were already falling before you even began to pray.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

Your voice fractured on the second line. The ache between your legs had not lessened. If anything, the act of sitting upright had only made the wetness more apparent, the way it had soaked through the cotton and now cooled slightly against your inner thighs. You pressed your legs together harder, trying to will the sensation away, but the pressure only intensified the throb.

You began to rock slightly on the edge of the bed, the motion unconscious, desperate.

“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”

The words tasted like ash. Because beneath the prayer, the dream kept replaying in flashes: the imagined press of fingers, the slow stretch, the way you had moaned in the dream even while trying to recite the very same words you were speaking now. Your free hand drifted downward without conscious permission, hovering just above the waistband of your underwear before you snatched it back as though burned.

You wept harder.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…”

The prayer broke into a sob. Your body was betraying you in the most fundamental way, aroused beyond reason by something you had spent your entire life condemning. The wetness between your legs had grown so pronounced that you could feel it when you shifted, a slick, shameful slide that made your breath catch. Your clit throbbed with every heartbeat, demanding attention you refused to give.

You tried to stand. Your legs felt weak. You paced the three steps to the window and back, arms wrapped around yourself, rosary still clutched in one fist. The cool morning air kissed your bare skin and only made the contrast with your heated core more unbearable.

“Why?” you whispered through tears, the question the same one you had asked the night before. “Why am I like this? Why does my body want what my soul rejects? I have never asked for this. I have never wanted this. Please take it away. Please.”

You sank back onto the bed, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them. The position only pressed your thighs more tightly together, and the resulting pressure against your swollen clit drew a broken sound from your throat. You were crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking, breath hitching, the rosary beads digging crescents into your palm.

Minutes passed. The ache did not fade. It sharpened.

Your hand moved again.

This time it did not stop.

With a choked sob you slipped your fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. The first touch was tentative, almost accidental, two fingers brushing over slick, overheated flesh. You gasped at the sensation, at how wet you truly were. Your folds parted easily beneath your touch, coated in arousal that had soaked everything. Your clit was so swollen it stood proud, and even the lightest brush of your fingertip sent a violent jolt through your entire body.

You yanked your hand back as though scalded.

“No,” you whispered again, voice thick with tears. “I can’t. I won’t. Lord, help me. Give me strength.”

But your body would not quiet. The throb had become a constant, painful pulse. Every shift of your hips dragged the soaked cotton against you. You could feel your own heartbeat between your legs.

With another broken sob you tried again.

This time your fingers stayed.

They moved awkwardly at first, hesitant, clumsy, as though your hand belonged to someone else. You had never done this while fully conscious, never allowed yourself to explore the way your body responded when you were not half-asleep and desperate in the dark. Your touch was too light, then too rough. You circled your clit with trembling fingers and the sensation was so intense it made your thighs jerk and your back arch involuntarily.

You tried to pray through it.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” The words came out ragged, interrupted by sharp little gasps you could not swallow. “The Lord is with thee…”

Your fingers slipped lower, gathering more of your own wetness before returning to your clit. The slickness made everything easier and somehow more shameful. You could hear it—the soft, wet sound of your own fingers moving, and the sound made fresh tears spill down your cheeks.

“Blessed art thou among women…” Your voice broke on a moan you tried to turn into a sob. Your hips had begun to rock in small, involuntary movements against your own hand. The pressure was building too quickly, too intensely for someone so inexperienced. Your fingers kept slipping in the abundant wetness, losing rhythm, and every time they did you let out a frustrated, tear-choked whimper.

You tried to stop.

You truly tried.

But your body had taken over. Your fingers moved faster, circling and pressing in a way that made your vision blur. The rosary was still clutched in your other hand, beads biting into your palm as you squeezed it like a lifeline.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God…” The words dissolved into a broken gasp. Your thighs were trembling violently now. The pleasure was cresting too fast, too sharp, and the guilt that came with it only seemed to heighten everything. You were so close you could feel it in your toes, in the way your stomach tightened, in the way your breath had turned into short, desperate pants.

You tried to pray again.

“Pray for us sinners…” Your voice cracked completely. Your fingers stuttered against your clit, too overwhelmed to maintain any kind of steady rhythm. You were crying harder now, tears soaking the pillow beneath your head. “Now and at the hour of our death…”

The prayer broke into a sob as your body teetered on the edge.

You were shaking. Your hand was soaked. Your underwear was ruined. And still the pleasure built, relentless and merciless, while the words of the Hail Mary fell apart in your mouth.

You did not leave your room for the rest of the day.

The hours crawled by in a haze of shame so thick it felt like it had physical weight. After the first shattering release, you had lain there trembling, staring at the ceiling with tears still tracking down your temples. The rosary had slipped from your fingers and now lay tangled on the floor beside the bed. You told yourself it had been a moment of weakness. A single lapse. That you would rise, wash yourself, dress, and return to your duties as though nothing had happened.

You did not rise.

Instead you remained in bed in your ruined underwear, the fabric cold and sticky against your skin. The guilt was immediate and vicious. You had touched yourself while praying. You had come with the words of the Hail Mary still trying to form on your lips. The memory alone made fresh tears spill. You felt filthy in a way that went far deeper than your damp skin, tainted in your very soul, as though the act had left a visible stain no one else could see but that you would carry for the rest of your life.

You tried to pray again.

The words would not come cleanly. Every time you closed your eyes you saw flashes from the dream, from the confessional, from the way your own fingers had moved. Your body, traitorous and exhausted, still carried a low, shameful hum of arousal. By mid-morning you had touched yourself again, awkward, frantic, crying through the entire thing, until another orgasm tore through you and left you curled on your side, sobbing into the pillow.

You did not eat.

You did not dress.

You simply existed in the narrow bed, drifting in and out of fitful dozing, waking each time with the same heavy shame pressing down on your chest. The room smelled faintly of sex and salt and the faint trace of incense that clung to everything in the convent. You hated the smell. You hated the way your body still responded when you shifted and the dried evidence of your weakness dragged against sensitive skin.

By early afternoon a soft knock came at your door.

“My child?” Your father’s voice was gentle, laced with the same warm concern he had carried since you were small. “One of the sisters said you hadn’t come down for morning duties or midday prayer. Are you unwell?”

You froze, heart hammering. The thought of him seeing you like this, even through a closed door, made your stomach turn. You were still in your underwear, the sheets twisted around your legs, your face blotchy from hours of crying. You felt exposed in every possible way.

“I’m… I think I’m coming down with something,” you managed, voice hoarse and small. You cleared your throat and tried again, forcing a steadiness you did not feel. “A fever, perhaps. Or a stomach illness. I was sick yesterday and I still feel quite weak. I think I just need a day or two of rest before I can return to routine.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door. You could picture him perfectly, brow furrowed with worry, hand resting lightly against the wood as though he could offer comfort through it.

“Oh, my angel,” he said softly, the endearment he had used since you were a child falling from his lips with genuine affection. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again. Always the first to help, the last to rest. Of course you may take the time you need. I’ll have some broth and tea brought up. And I’ll ask the sisters to cover your duties for the next day or two. You focus on getting well. The Lord understands rest, my dear. He does not demand we break ourselves in His service.”

His kindness only made the shame burn hotter.

You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound. Here was your father, the man who had raised you in faith, who had always looked at you like you were something precious and pure, speaking to you with such gentle love while you lay in a bed that still smelled of what you had done to yourself. While your body still carried the evidence of repeated, shameful release. While the dream of another woman’s hands still lingered behind your eyelids.

“Thank you, Papa,” you whispered, the words cracking. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

“You never worry me when you take care of yourself,” he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice even through the door. “Rest, little one. I’ll check on you again this evening. If you need anything at all, you only have to call.”

His footsteps retreated down the corridor, slow and unhurried, the way they always were when he was concerned but trying not to hover.

You stayed exactly where you were, staring at the closed door long after he was gone.

The tears came again, hot and silent.

You felt so dirty.

So thoroughly, irreparably tainted.

All you had done since waking was touch yourself, again and again, while the prayers you had once spoken with such devotion lay broken and forgotten on the floor beside your bed. Your father’s angel child. The good daughter. The one who had never strayed.

And now this.

You curled tighter beneath the thin sheet, one hand drifting downward once more despite every ounce of shame screaming at you to stop. Your fingers found slick, swollen flesh and began to move with the same clumsy, desperate rhythm as before.

You did not pray this time.

You simply cried, quiet and broken, as your body once again betrayed you in the only way it seemed to know how.

You returned to your duties after two days of self-imposed isolation, but the girl who stepped back into the nave was not the same one who had left it. The fragile peace you had once carried was gone, replaced by a brittle, defensive shell. You moved through your tasks with mechanical precision, arranging flowers, sorting linens, offering quiet counsel in the confessional when required, but there was a new tightness in your posture, a wariness in the way your eyes scanned every room before you entered it.

You avoided Nikki completely.

When she appeared at the edge of the garden one afternoon while you were pruning the roses, you turned your back and busied yourself with the far end of the bed until she eventually left. When she lit her candle at the side altar after a weekday Mass, you slipped out through the sacristy door before she could catch your eye. If your paths crossed in the nave or the parish hall, you offered only the barest nod, polite enough to avoid outright rudeness, but cold enough that the distance between you was unmistakable. Your gaze, when it did linger on her, carried a flicker of something sharp. Disgust. Judgment. A quiet, simmering blame.

None of this had existed before her.

The thought circled in your mind like a justification you could not quite admit aloud. The dreams, the compulsive touching, the shame that now lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, none of it had begun until she started speaking to you. Until she sat beside you in the back pew. Until she confessed those things in the booth with that low, intimate voice. It was easier to lay the corruption at her feet than to examine the rot that had apparently always been inside you. So you passed silent judgment every time you saw her. You blamed the sinner for the sin.

And it made Nikki furious.

She noticed the change immediately. The first time you turned your back on her in the garden, she had simply paused, head tilting slightly as she watched you retreat. The second time, in the nave after Mass, her jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly. By the third and fourth day, the pattern was clear. You were avoiding her. Worse, you were looking at her like she was something distasteful. Like she had wronged you simply by existing in the same space.

It burned.

She had never been cruel to you. She had never forced anything. She had spoken to you gently, offered conversation, sat beside you during the liturgy like any other parishioner might. And now you looked at her with that quiet, pious disdain, as though she were the source of all your suffering. As though the perfect little preacher’s daughter could not possibly be responsible for the cracks appearing in her own pristine faith.

The anger settled deep in Nikki’s chest, hot and steady.

The careful, almost tender thoughts she had once entertained, the slow corruption, the gentle unravelling, the desire to watch you come apart under patient hands, began to sour. Why should she be gentle? Why should she take her time, coax you softly, when you looked at her like she was something filthy that had crawled into your holy little world? You had judged her without knowing the first thing about her. You had decided she was the villain in your private little drama of temptation and shame.

Fine.

If you wanted to cast her as the corrupting force, she could play the part.

The last traces of softness in her intentions burned away over those days. In their place rose something sharper, more possessive, more vengeful. She no longer wanted to ease you into ruin with careful patience. She wanted to drag you there. To make you admit, out loud, on your knees, with tears on your face, that the rot had been inside you all along. That no matter how much you blamed her, the hunger had always been yours.

She watched you from across the nave one afternoon, arms folded, expression calm to anyone who might glance her way. But behind her eyes, the decision had already hardened into something cold and inevitable.

The church was silent at one in the morning, the kind of deep, hollow quiet that only existed when every soul had gone to bed and the old stone walls were left to hold their own secrets. Moonlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in fractured colors, casting long shadows across the empty pews. The air smelled of cooled incense and beeswax, the faint residue of the evening’s prayers still lingering like a memory.

You knelt in the front pew, rosary clutched so tightly the beads had left deep impressions in your palm. You had been there for over an hour already. Sleep had refused you again. Every time you closed your eyes the dream returned, filthy, relentless, centered on the very woman you had been trying so desperately to blame and avoid. So you had come here instead, to the only place that had ever offered you any kind of peace, and tried to pray the sickness out of yourself once more.

It was not working.

Your shoulders were tight with exhaustion. Your eyes were red and swollen from crying. The same questions circled endlessly in your mind: Why me? Why now? Why can I not be clean again? You rocked slightly on your knees, the motion small and unconscious, as you whispered the same broken prayers you had been repeating for days.

That was when the heavy side door opened.

Nikki stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. She had come straight from a late show at a small venue across town, still in dark jeans and a simple black top, her hair loosely tied back, the faint scent of stage lights and whiskey clinging to her. She had not intended to do anything tonight. She had only wanted to light a candle, the same small ritual she sometimes kept even after shedding most of her faith. A quiet moment before heading home.

Then she saw you.

Kneeling there in the moonlight, alone in the vast empty nave, looking so small and worn down that something in her chest tightened. You looked exhausted. Restless. Worried in a way that went far deeper than simple fatigue. And the sight of you, vulnerable, unguarded, and exactly where she had not expected to find you, settled something cold and decisive inside her.

You had fallen perfectly into her lap.

She watched you for a long moment from the shadows near the pillar, then made her decision. Her boots were quiet against the stone as she approached, stopping a few feet away from your pew. She did not kneel. She simply stood there, studying the rigid line of your back and the way your fingers worried the rosary beads like they might break.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and even, but there was an edge beneath it that had not been there in previous conversations.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

You startled at the sound, shoulders jerking as you turned. Your eyes were wide and glassy in the dim light. Before you could answer, she continued, stepping closer until she stood at the end of the pew.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me now. Like I’m something dirty. Like I’ve done something to you. You pass judgment every time our paths cross, and I don’t understand it. I’ve never wronged you. I’ve never been cruel to you. So tell me—why do you scorn me like this?”

The words hung in the quiet church, honest and direct.

You stared at her for a long moment, exhaustion and weeks of pent-up shame and anger swirling inside you until they finally overflowed. You were so tired. So angry at the sickness that had taken root inside you. So furious at the way your body and mind had turned against everything you had ever believed in. And here she was, standing in your church in the middle of the night, asking you to explain yourself when all you wanted was for the torment to stop.

The kindness you had always worn like a second skin cracked.

You rose slowly from the kneeler, the rosary still clutched in your fist. Your voice, when it came, was raw and unsteady, stripped of its usual gentle politeness.

“Because none of this was happening before you,” you said, and the words came out sharper than you had ever spoken to anyone. “Before you started talking to me. Before you sat beside me. Before you said those things in the confessional. I was fine. I was good. And then you—” Your voice broke, thick with tears and exhaustion. “You brought all of this into my life. And now I can’t stop it. So yes, I avoid you. Yes, I look at you like you’re something I should stay away from. Because it’s easier than admitting that I’m the one who’s broken.”

The admission hung between you, ugly and honest in a way you had never allowed yourself to be with her before.

Nikki’s expression did not change much, but something in her eyes darkened. The last remaining thread of softness she had been holding onto finally snapped.

The anger that moved through Nikki was sudden and visceral, a living thing that snapped the last thread of restraint she had been clinging to. Her expression changed in an instant—from controlled frustration to something much darker. Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowed, and before you could react she surged forward.

Her hand shot out and fisted tightly in your hair at the roots, yanking your head back with a sharp, unforgiving tug. The pain was immediate and bright. You gasped, hands flying up instinctively to grab her wrist, but she held firm, using the grip to force you to look at her.

“You want to pass judgment on me?” she hissed, voice low and shaking with fury. “You want to look at me like I’m something filthy that crawled into your precious little church? Fine. I’ll give you a reason to loathe me. I’ll give you a reason you actually deserve.”

She began dragging you backward by your hair, the force of it making you stumble. Your feet scrambled against the stone floor as she pulled you down the center aisle toward the baptismal font at the front of the nave. The pain in your scalp was sharp and constant, tears springing to your eyes from the sting.

“You’re not as pure as everyone thinks you are,” Nikki growled, half to herself, half to you. “Purity doesn’t look at someone the way you’ve been looking at me. Purity doesn’t pass silent judgment and then act like the victim when they get called on it. You’re a hypocrite. A prissy little bitch playing saint while you rot from the inside.”

She shoved you the last few steps until your back hit the cold stone edge of the baptismal font. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. She kept her grip in your hair, using it to pin you there, her body crowding close. Her free hand braced against the rim of the font beside your hip, caging you in.

“You deserve this,” she muttered, voice rough with anger. “All of it. Walking around here like you’re better than everyone, like your little crisis is somehow my fault. You want to blame me for your sickness? Then I’ll make sure you have something real to blame me for.”

Her breathing was heavy. The fury rolling off her was palpable, thick in the air between you, in the tight line of her shoulders, in the way her fingers twisted deeper into your hair and gave another sharp tug that made you whimper.

She leaned in closer, her face inches from yours in the dim moonlight, eyes dark and blazing.

“You brought this on yourself,” she said, quieter now, but no less furious. “So don’t you dare look at me like I’m the monster here. Not when you’re the one who decided I was already guilty.”

Her grip did not loosen. She kept you pinned against the baptismal font, chest rising and falling with the force of her anger, waiting to see what you would do now that the mask of gentle patience had finally, completely, shattered.

The moment the words left her mouth, Nikki’s grip in your hair tightened further. She yanked your head back another fraction, forcing your face up toward hers, and then she kissed you.

It was nothing like the gentle, careful thing you might have imagined in your weakest moments. It was rough, claiming, and furious. Her mouth crashed against yours with bruising force, lips parting immediately to take what she wanted. She tasted like whiskey and something sharper, something angry. Her tongue pushed past your lips without hesitation, deep and demanding, as if she had every right to be there.

You froze for half a second in pure shock.

Then you fought.

Your hands came up between you, shoving hard against her chest. A muffled sound of protest escaped into her mouth as you tried to turn your head away, but her grip on your hair kept you exactly where she wanted you. You pushed again, palms flat against her, trying to create space, trying to twist out of the kiss. Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was wrong. This was sin made flesh. You had never been kissed like this, never been kissed at all in any way that mattered, and the sheer force of it, the way she took without asking, sent panic and something darker spiraling through you at once.

Nikki did not stop.

She kissed you harder, swallowing your sounds of resistance, her tongue stroking deep and slow now, deliberately overwhelming. One hand stayed fisted in your hair while the other slid down to grip your hip, pinning you more firmly against the cold stone of the baptismal font. She kissed like she was punishing you for every cold glance, every avoidance, every silent judgment you had passed on her over the past days.

You kept fighting at first.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, pushing, twisting, trying to shove her back. Small, desperate sounds left you, half protest, half something you refused to name. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, tracking down your temples as she refused to let you turn away. Every time you managed to break the kiss for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, she simply followed, claiming your mouth again with renewed intensity.

“Stop fighting me,” she growled against your lips between kisses, voice low and rough. “You wanted to blame me for everything? Then take it. Take what you’ve been so afraid of.”

You made another sound of protest, trying to turn your head again, but her grip in your hair was unforgiving. She angled your face exactly how she wanted it and kissed you deeper, slower this time, almost mocking in its thoroughness. Her tongue stroked against yours like she was teaching you, like she knew you had no idea what you were doing and was determined to show you anyway.

Your resistance began to falter.

Not all at once. It happened in pieces. Your hands, still pressed to her chest, stopped shoving quite so hard. Your body, pinned between her and the font, stopped twisting quite so violently. The fight drained out of you in slow, shameful increments until you were simply… there. Letting her kiss you. Letting her take. Your lips parted more easily under hers. The small, broken sounds you made shifted from pure protest into something quieter, something defeated.

Nikki felt the change immediately.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her mouth still brushing against yours, breath hot against your wet lips. Her eyes were dark, furious, and glittering with something dangerously satisfied.

“There it is,” she murmured, voice low and mocking. “You stopped fighting. Just like that.”

She gave your hair another sharp tug, forcing your head back further so she could look at you properly. Your eyes were glassy, your lips swollen and parted, tears still clinging to your lashes. She studied your face for a long moment, breathing hard.

“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” she said, almost conversational, though the anger still burned beneath every word. “All that judgment. All that cold little disdain you’ve been throwing at me for days. And the second I actually take something, you just… give up. You don’t even fight for it.”

She leaned in again, brushing her mouth against yours in a slow, taunting almost-kiss.

“You claim you’re so pure. So devoted. So terrified of this sickness inside you.” Her voice dropped lower, rougher. “But you’re not fighting me. Not really. Not the way someone who actually wanted to protect their faith would fight. You’re just standing here letting me kiss you like you’ve been waiting for it.”

She kissed you again then, slower this time, but no less claiming. Her tongue slid deep, deliberate, taking her time now that she knew you weren’t going to push her away with any real force. When she finally pulled back again, her lips were still close enough that you could feel every word.

“You want this more than you think,” Nikki said, and the words were almost gentle in their cruelty. “That’s why you’re not fighting harder. That’s why you’re not screaming for help or calling down every saint you know to save you. Because some part of you has been dying for someone to do this. To take the choice away. To make you feel what you’ve been so scared of feeling.”

Her hand in your hair loosened just slightly, but she didn’t let go. She kept you pinned there against the baptismal font, her body still pressed close, her eyes locked on yours.

“So go on,” she murmured, voice dark and quiet. “Keep telling yourself I’m the monster here. Keep blaming me for every filthy thought you’ve had. But we both know the truth now, don’t we?”

She brushed her thumb across your lower lip, smearing the wetness there.

“You stopped fighting because you didn’t really want to win.”

Nikki’s hand slid down from your hair and caught your wrist instead. She pried your fingers open with deliberate roughness, taking the rosary from your slack grip. The beads clicked softly as she held them up between you for a moment, the small crucifix dangling and catching the moonlight.

“Put it on,” she ordered, voice low and edged with contempt. “Make yourself pure again. Humor me. Call on every saint you know. Pray while I do this. Let’s see how well that works for you.”

Your hands were shaking as you took the rosary back. For a second you simply stared at it, the familiar weight of it suddenly foreign in your palm. Then, with slow, mechanical movements, you lifted it over your head. The beads settled against your collarbones, cool and heavy, the crucifix resting just above the hollow of your throat where your gold cross already lay. You clutched the strand in both hands like a shield, knuckles white.

Nikki watched you do it with dark, satisfied eyes.

Then she leaned in.

Her mouth found the side of your neck first, hot, open, and unhurried. She kissed the sensitive skin just below your ear, then dragged her lips lower, tasting the frantic pulse hammering beneath your skin. When she reached the junction of your neck and shoulder she bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you jolt. A small, involuntary sound escaped you.

She didn’t stop.

She kissed along your jaw next, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting she’d left behind. Her breath was warm against your ear as she caught the lobe between her teeth and tugged gently before releasing it. All the while her body stayed pressed close, keeping you pinned against the baptismal font.

You tried to pray.

The words came out fractured, barely above a whisper.

“Saint… Saint Michael the Archangel…” Your voice trembled. “Defend us in battle…”

Nikki’s mouth moved back to your neck, sucking a mark just beneath your ear. Your breath hitched.

“Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…”

She bit again, sharper this time, and your fingers tightened around the rosary beads until they dug painfully into your palms.

“Saint… Saint Agnes…” The name broke on a soft, involuntary moan as her teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “Pray for us…”

Nikki stilled for half a second.

Then she laughed.

It was a low, quiet sound, dark with satisfaction, exhaled right against the wet skin she’d just marked. She pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand still braced on the font beside your hip, the other sliding up to rest loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, feeling the way you swallowed hard beneath her palm.

“You wouldn’t have even started praying if I hadn’t told you to,” she murmured, voice thick with cruel amusement. “Would you? The second I stopped forcing you, you would’ve just stood here and let me do whatever I wanted. But the second I give you an order to pray… you obey. Like a good little saint.”

She leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re already broken,” she whispered. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Her mouth returned to your neck, slower now, more deliberate. She kissed and bit and sucked marks into your skin while you tried to keep praying, your voice shaking worse with every passing second. The rosary beads clicked faintly in your trembling hands.

Nikki could feel it, the way your body was reacting despite everything. The way you weren’t pushing her away anymore. The way your prayers kept fracturing into soft, helpless sounds every time her teeth found a new spot.

In her mind, you were already hers.

But she wasn’t satisfied with that.

Not yet.

She wanted more than this quiet, trembling surrender. She wanted you to break completely. She wanted you to beg. She wanted you to admit, out loud, that the sickness you feared had always been inside you, and that she was the one who had finally dragged it into the light.

Her hand tightened just slightly around your throat as she kissed the corner of your jaw.

“Keep praying,” she ordered softly, darkly. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Nikki didn’t give you room to breathe.

She kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing the words of your prayer the moment they tried to leave your mouth. Her lips moved over yours with slow, deliberate hunger, tongue stroking against your own as if she could erase every saint’s name from your tongue before it could fully form. You tried to keep speaking anyway, soft, broken fragments of prayer slipping out between kisses.

“Saint… Saint Cecilia…” you managed against her mouth, voice trembling. “Pray for us…”

She caught the words and took them, kissing you harder, swallowing the plea like it belonged to her now. One of her hands slid up into your hair again, but this time the touch was different, almost reverent. Her fingers stroked through the strands with slow, soothing motions, petting you like something precious even as her mouth claimed you without mercy. The contrast made your head spin.

You kept trying.

“Saint… Thomas Aquinas… guide us in… in wisdom…”

The words dissolved into a shaky breath as she kissed you again, slower now, almost lazy, like she had all the time in the world to dismantle you. Her tongue slid deep, coaxing, demanding. Your hands were still clutched around the rosary beads at your chest, knuckles white, but they had stopped moving. The prayers were falling apart.

Every time you tried to speak another name, she took it from you.

Her mouth was relentless. Kissing your lips, then your jaw again, then back to your mouth like she couldn’t decide which part of you she wanted to ruin first. The hand in your hair continued its slow, almost tender stroking, thumb brushing gently behind your ear even as her teeth caught your bottom lip and tugged.

You tried one last time.

“Saint… Saint Maria Goretti…” Your voice cracked. “Pray for… for purity…”

Nikki made a low sound against your lips, half laugh, half growl, and kissed you so deeply you forgot the rest of the name entirely.

That was when something inside you finally gave way.

The fight left your body in a slow, exhausted exhale. Your lips stopped trying to form the words. Your hands loosened slightly around the rosary. You simply… let her. Let her kiss you. Let her take. It felt like standing face to face with something you had spent your entire life fearing and fighting, only to realize that no amount of faith, no amount of prayer, no amount of desperate clinging to the rosary around your neck could stop what was happening now.

In your mind, it felt like the devil had finally come for you.

And for once, your faith could not save you.

Nikki felt the surrender the moment it happened. She kissed you slower, deeper, almost savoring it now that you had stopped resisting. Her hand continued stroking your hair with that strange, almost reverent tenderness while her mouth moved against yours like she owned it.

Then you shifted.

It was small. Unconscious. Your back pressed a little harder against the cold stone of the baptismal font as you tried to steady yourself, and without meaning to, your legs parted just slightly, barely an inch, a tiny, instinctive adjustment of your stance to keep your balance.

Nikki noticed immediately.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing against yours, her breath warm and uneven.

“Oh,” she murmured, voice low and darkly amused. “Look at that.”

Her free hand slid down to rest on your hip, thumb brushing slowly along the fabric of your habit.

“Your legs just opened for me.” She said it quietly, almost thoughtfully, but there was a sharp edge of satisfaction underneath. “Didn’t even mean to, did you? Just a little shift… and suddenly you’re making room.”

She kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, her voice dropping even lower.

“Almost like you’re inviting me in.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on your hip, holding you there against the font as she pressed closer, her thigh brushing between yours with deliberate intent.

“Keep praying if you want,” she whispered against your skin. “But we both know it’s not going to change what’s already happening.”

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god 

Nikki pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

She didn’t rush. She took her time, eyes moving slowly over your face like she was committing every detail to memory. The way your eyes were glassy and wet, lashes clumped together from tears you hadn’t quite let fall. The way your lips were parted and swollen from her kisses, trembling slightly with every shaky breath. The deep flush across your cheeks, the way your brow was drawn tight in a mixture of fear and something far more shameful. The way you looked like you were barely holding yourself together.

She basked in it.

A slow, dark smile curved her mouth as she studied the open, raw shame carved into your features. This was what she had wanted to see. Not the cold judgment from before. Not the pious avoidance. Just this, fear and guilt and helpless want all tangled together on the face of the preacher’s perfect daughter.

Without breaking eye contact, Nikki began to lower herself.

She did it slowly. Deliberately. Almost patronizing in its unhurried pace. She kept her gaze locked on yours as she sank down, one knee at a time, until she was kneeling on the cold stone floor in front of you. The movement was unhurried, almost graceful, like she had all the time in the world. Like she knew exactly what this looked like. Like she knew you knew what was coming next.

Your breath caught.

You looked down at her with wide, wet eyes, and for a moment it seemed like you might actually start crying. Your lower lip trembled. Your hands tightened around the rosary beads until your knuckles went bone-white. You looked terrified. You looked ashamed. And yet… you didn’t move. You didn’t push her away. You didn’t step back or turn or run.

You stayed exactly where you were, pressed against the baptismal font, breathing fast and shallow as Nikki settled on her knees between your legs.

She rested her hands lightly on your hips, thumbs stroking slow, almost soothing circles over the fabric of your habit. Her head tilted slightly as she looked up at you from below, that dark, satisfied expression never leaving her face.

“Say no,” she said quietly, voice low and steady. “And I’ll stop.”

The words hung in the air between you.

Nikki didn’t move. She simply waited, kneeling there on the stone floor of the church, hands on your hips, eyes locked on yours. She gave you the out. Gave you the chance to end it. Gave you one last opportunity to be the good, faithful girl everyone believed you were.

You didn’t say anything.

The silence stretched. Your lips parted like you might speak, but no sound came out. Your eyes filled with fresh tears that didn’t fall. Your fingers stayed locked around the rosary like it might still save you, even though you both knew it wouldn’t. You looked like you wanted to cry. You looked like you wanted to run. And still, you didn’t say no.

Nikki’s smile deepened, slow and knowing.

She didn’t need you to say yes.

Your silence was answer enough.

She let the moment linger a little longer, savoring the way your shame and fear and reluctant want played across your face. Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh through the fabric of your habit, right where the material had ridden up slightly from your earlier shift against the font.

Her voice was soft when she spoke again, almost gentle.

“That’s what I thought.”

Nikki didn’t rush.

She stayed exactly where she was, kneeling between your legs on the cold stone floor. She pressed her face slowly against the inside of your thigh, right where she had kissed you moments before. Her nose brushed the fabric of your habit first, then she turned her head slightly and parted her lips, breathing out in a slow, open-mouthed exhale against the thin material.

She inhaled deeply.

The scent of you hit her immediately, warm, musky, unmistakably aroused. Even through the layers of fabric she could smell how wet you were. It was faint but undeniable, the evidence of everything your body had been doing despite your mind’s desperate protests. She breathed you in again, slower this time, deliberately, like she was savoring it. Her eyes fluttered half-closed for a moment as she took another long, unhurried inhale, her warm breath seeping through the cloth and ghosting over sensitive skin.

She stayed like that.

Minutes seemed to stretch. She didn’t move her hands. She didn’t kiss or lick or do anything more than simply press her face there and breathe you in, over and over. Each slow exhale was hot and deliberate. Each inhale was deep, almost reverent in its thoroughness. You could feel every breath against your thigh, warm, damp, intimate in a way that made your stomach twist with shame. Your legs trembled faintly. The rosary beads were still clutched tightly in your hands, the small crucifix pressing hard into your palm.

Nikki kept breathing you in like she had nowhere else to be.

Like she could stay there all night if she wanted to.

Eventually, without lifting her face, she spoke. Her voice was low, slightly muffled against your thigh, but perfectly clear.

“Hold your clothes up for me.”

The words landed like a stone in still water.

You shook your head immediately. It was small, almost instinctive, but firm. Your fingers tightened around the rosary instead, knuckles whitening further. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. The thought of lifting your habit, of exposing yourself to her like that in the middle of the church, was too much. Shame burned hot behind your eyes.

Nikki was quiet for a moment.

Then she finally lifted her head just enough to look up at you. Her eyes were dark, steady, and completely calm.

“Do as I say,” she said simply, voice quiet but firm, “and I will be gentle with you.”

The offer hung in the air between you.

She didn’t threaten. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply gave you the choice, obey and she would take her time, be careful, make it easier on you. Refuse… and she didn’t finish that thought. She didn’t need to.

Her hands stayed lightly on your hips, thumbs stroking slow, patient circles as she waited, still kneeling between your legs, face inches from where she had just been breathing you in.

She didn’t move.

She just looked up at you, patient and unyielding, giving you one last moment to decide how this was going to go.

And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, god be merciful to me a sinner.

You lifted your habit with shaking hands.

The movement was reluctant, almost painful to watch. Your fingers fumbled with the fabric, slowly gathering the layers and pulling them upward until the cool night air touched the bare skin of your thighs. You stopped just above your hips, holding the material bunched in your fists. You couldn’t look at her. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere over her head, staring at the dark, empty pews behind her, jaw tight and trembling.

Nikki watched every second of it.

A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as she looked up at you from her knees. She could see the shame burning across your face, the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way you refused to meet her eyes. It was exactly what she had wanted.

“There it is,” she murmured, voice low and almost pleased. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for this. For you to stop pretending you’re above all of it. Above me.” Her hands slid slowly up the backs of your thighs, warm and steady. “I wanted to ruin that high and mighty little view you have of yourself. That perfect, untouchable image everyone has of the preacher’s daughter. I wanted to bring you down to the same level as the rest of us. Dirty. Wanting. Human.”

She leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, just above where the bunched fabric ended. Then another, higher. Her breath was hot against your skin.

“And look at you now,” she whispered against your leg. “Holding your clothes up for me like a good girl. In the middle of your father’s church. With your rosary still around your neck.”

She didn’t rush.

Nikki took her time settling in. She shifted slightly on her knees, getting comfortable, her hands gently coaxing your thighs a little wider. Then she leaned forward and dragged the flat of her tongue slowly up the center of your underwear, pressing firmly against the soaked cotton. The taste of you hit her immediately, sweet, musky, and unmistakably aroused. She hummed quietly against you, the vibration traveling through the fabric.

She stayed there for a long moment, breathing you in again, this time with nothing between her mouth and your heat except that thin, damp layer of cotton. Her tongue pressed and stroked in slow, deliberate laps, soaking the fabric even more. Every so often she would pause, press a soft kiss right over your clit through the material, and then continue licking with long, unhurried strokes.

You trembled.

Your hands tightened in the bunched fabric of your habit. Your breathing had gone shallow and uneven. The rosary beads clicked faintly as your fingers shifted against them.

Nikki finally hooked two fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slowly, carefully pulled them down your thighs. She didn’t rush even then. She took her time sliding them down until they pooled around your ankles, then gently lifted one of your feet to help you step out of them. She set them aside and looked up at you once more.

Then she leaned in and gave you her mouth properly.

The first touch of her tongue against your bare skin was slow and deliberate. She licked a long, unhurried stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, tasting you fully now. She did it again. And again. Long, slow, thorough licks that dragged over every inch of you. Her tongue was warm and wet and patient, circling your clit with gentle, unhurried pressure before dipping lower again to lap at the slickness gathered there.

She took her time.

There was no urgency in the way she moved. She licked you like she was savoring every second, like she wanted to draw this out for as long as possible. Her tongue traced slow circles around your swollen clit, sometimes pressing flat and broad, sometimes flicking lightly with just the tip. Every few moments she would seal her lips around it and suck gently, soft and rhythmic, before releasing and going back to those long, dragging licks.

Your thighs trembled on either side of her head.

A broken sound escaped you, half gasp, half whimper, and you immediately bit down on your lower lip to silence it. Your eyes stayed squeezed shut now, head tilted back against the stone of the baptismal font. The rosary was still clutched tightly in one hand while the other kept your habit lifted.

Nikki didn’t stop.

She kept going at that same slow, hungry pace. She would lick broad and flat for several long strokes, then focus on your clit with soft, rhythmic suction. Sometimes she would dip her tongue lower, teasing at your entrance, pushing in just slightly before pulling back and returning to your clit. Her hands stayed on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles into your skin even as her mouth worked you over with devastating patience.

Every so often she would pull back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against your slick folds as she did.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” she murmured, voice rough. “All that purity and you’re dripping for me.”

Then she would lean back in and continue, slow and relentless.

Minutes passed like that.

She never sped up. She never got rough. She simply stayed on her knees between your legs, licking and sucking you with slow, deliberate hunger, like she had all night to ruin you exactly like this. Every time your hips twitched or a soft, helpless sound slipped out of you, she would hum against you in quiet satisfaction before continuing at that same unhurried pace.

She was in no rush to make you come.

Not yet.

She wanted to drag this out. She wanted you to feel every single second of it, the shame, the pleasure, the way your body was betraying every vow you had ever made while she knelt there worshiping you with her mouth in the middle of your father’s church.

Nikki stayed on her knees between your legs for what felt like an eternity.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t chase your orgasm. She simply kept her mouth on you with that same slow, deliberate hunger, licking and sucking with patient, devastating thoroughness. Long, broad strokes of her tongue dragged over your soaked folds again and again. Every so often she would seal her lips around your swollen clit and suck gently, rhythmically, before releasing and going back to those slow, thorough licks. Her hands stayed steady on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles into your skin even as her mouth worked you over without mercy.

Time blurred.

Your legs were trembling. Your breathing had gone ragged and uneven. The rosary beads clicked faintly every time your fingers tightened around them. You kept your habit bunched up in one fist, the other hand clutching the strand of beads like a lifeline. Every few minutes a soft, broken sound would slip out of you before you could swallow it back down.

Eventually, Nikki pulled back just enough to look up at you.

Her mouth was wet, lips shiny, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as she gazed up from between your thighs. She didn’t say anything at first. She simply watched your face, the deep flush across your cheeks, the way your eyes were glassy and wet, the way your bottom lip trembled.

You couldn’t take it.

“Don’t… don’t look at me,” you whispered, voice small and thick with shame. Your eyes squeezed shut as fresh tears threatened to spill. “Please. Just… don’t.”

Nikki was quiet for a moment.

Then she spoke, her voice low and cold.

“Pray.”

The single word landed like ice.

You blinked down at her, confused and humiliated.

“Pray to your father for forgiveness,” she said, tone flat and merciless. “Go on. Ask him to forgive you for letting me do this to you. For holding your clothes up like a whore in the middle of his church. Pray.”

Your breath caught.

She didn’t wait for you to argue. She simply leaned back in and dragged her tongue slowly up through your folds again, slow and deliberate, before sealing her mouth over your clit once more.

You tried.

Your voice shook violently as you forced the words out.

“Our Father…” A soft, helpless sound escaped you when she sucked gently. You bit your lip hard, trying again. “Who art in heaven… hallowed be thy name…”

Nikki hummed against you in quiet approval, the vibration making your thighs jerk. She kept licking, slow and thorough, never speeding up, never letting you forget exactly what was happening while you tried to speak to God.

“Thy kingdom come…” Your voice cracked. The memory of every other time you had prayed while touching yourself came rushing back, the nights you had cried and begged for deliverance with your own fingers between your legs. The shame of it made your eyes burn. “Thy will be done… on earth as it is in heaven…”

You were struggling.

Every time her tongue circled your clit or dipped lower, another broken sound tried to push its way out of your throat. You kept swallowing them down, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to form the words properly even as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

Nikki knew exactly what she was doing.

She wanted to hear it.

She wanted to feel the moment your prayers fractured completely. She wanted to taste you when your voice finally broke on your father’s name and turned into something else entirely. She kept her pace slow and relentless, licking and sucking with that same patient hunger, listening to every shaky word you managed to force out between soft, bitten-back moans.

You kept trying.

“Give us this day our daily bread…” Your voice wavered badly when she sucked on your clit again. Your free hand flew up to cover your mouth for a second before you forced it back down to clutch the rosary. “And forgive us our trespasses…”

Nikki’s eyes flicked up to watch your face as she worked you over, dark satisfaction flickering in her gaze every time your voice broke or your thighs trembled harder around her head.

Nikki didn’t change her pace.

She stayed exactly as she was, slow, thorough, and relentless. Her tongue moved in long, deliberate strokes, sometimes broad and flat, sometimes focused with precise, circling pressure around your swollen clit. Every so often she would seal her lips around it and suck with that same gentle, rhythmic pull before releasing and going back to licking you like she had all the time in the world.

You kept trying to pray.

Your voice was shaking so badly now that the words came out broken and fractured.

“…and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

A soft, helpless moan slipped out of you before you could stop it. Your thighs trembled violently on either side of her head. The rosary beads dug into your palm so hard they left marks.

Nikki hummed against you in quiet satisfaction.

She kept going.

Minutes dragged on. She never sped up. She never chased it. She simply kept licking and sucking you with that same patient, devastating hunger, listening to every shaky word of the prayer you were trying, and failing, to get through. Every time your voice cracked or a moan escaped, she would press her tongue more firmly against your clit for a few slow, deliberate strokes before easing off again.

Your breathing had turned ragged. Your hips kept twitching despite yourself, small, involuntary movements that pressed you closer to her mouth. You were so wet now that you could hear it, the soft, obscene sound of her tongue moving against you every time she licked through your folds.

“…and lead us not into temptation…” Your voice broke completely on the word. A loud, desperate moan tore out of your throat before you could swallow it back. Your free hand flew up to cover your mouth, but it was too late. The sound had already echoed through the empty church.

Nikki’s eyes flicked up to watch you.

She didn’t stop.

She kept her mouth on you, licking slow and deep, sucking gently on your clit as your body started to tighten. She could feel it, the way your thighs were shaking harder, the way your breathing had turned into short, gasping pants, the way your hips were moving more insistently against her tongue now.

You were close.

And she wanted to hear it.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against your slick, swollen flesh as she did.

“Scream for me.”

Her voice was low, dark, and almost gentle.

“Go on. Scream. Maybe if you’re loud enough, someone will hear you. Maybe one of the sisters will come running. Maybe your father will come down those stairs and see exactly what his perfect little angel has become.”

She leaned back in and dragged her tongue slowly up through your folds again, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with firm, steady pressure.

“Scream,” she murmured against you. “Let them hear what you sound like when you fall apart.”

You tried to hold it back.

You really tried.

But the pleasure was cresting too high, too fast, and her mouth was too patient, too thorough. Your body had been kept on the edge for so long that when it finally started to break, there was no stopping it.

Your orgasm hit hard.

A loud, broken moan tore out of your throat, raw and helpless. Your thighs clamped around her head as your back arched hard against the baptismal font. The rosary slipped from your fingers and clattered to the stone floor. Your free hand flew up to cover your mouth, but another loud, desperate cry still escaped between your fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

Nikki didn’t stop.

She kept licking you through it, slow and steady, drawing it out as long as she could. She hummed against your clit as you came, the vibration making your whole body jerk. She only eased off when your thighs finally stopped shaking and your breathing began to slow.

Even then, she didn’t pull away completely.

She stayed between your legs, pressing soft, slow kisses against your oversensitive flesh while you trembled above her, still trying to catch your breath. Her hands stroked soothingly up and down your thighs as the last aftershocks rolled through you.

When she finally lifted her head, her mouth was shiny and her eyes were dark with satisfaction.

She looked up at you, still kneeling on the cold stone floor, and spoke quietly.

“There we go,” she murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

O wretched man that i am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

Nikki stayed on her knees for a long moment after you came, pressing slow, almost gentle kisses against your inner thighs while your body trembled above her. She could feel the way you were still shaking, the way your breathing came in uneven, ragged pulls. Only when your legs had mostly stopped trembling did she finally rise.

She stood slowly, deliberately, until she was right in front of you again. Without giving you time to recover or pull away, she cupped your face in both hands and kissed you.

It was deep and unhurried. She forced her tongue past your lips, making sure you tasted yourself on her, the slick, musky evidence of what she had just done to you. She kissed you like she wanted you to feel it, to know exactly what she had pulled from your body while you stood there clutching your own habit in a church.

You broke.

The moment the taste hit your tongue, something inside you snapped.

You shoved her hard, both hands pushing against her chest with sudden, frantic strength. Your eyes were wide and wild, filled with fresh tears that finally spilled over.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, voice cracking and raw. “Don’t you dare touch me! You’ve made me dirty— you’ve made me sinful and unclean! I can taste it— I can taste what you did to me!”

Your hands were shaking violently as you wiped at your mouth with the back of your arm, like you could somehow erase the evidence of her from your lips. More tears spilled down your cheeks as the full weight of what had just happened crashed over you.

“You’ve ruined me,” you sobbed, voice breaking completely. “I was trying so hard— I was praying, I was fighting, and you— you made me—” Your words dissolved into another broken sob. You pressed both hands over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you stared at her with pure, horrified shame. “Don’t touch me again. Please. You’ve already done enough. You’ve made me filthy.”

Nikki went very still.

The shift in her was immediate and sharp. The dark satisfaction that had been in her eyes moments ago cooled into something much colder. Her jaw tightened. The hand that had been cupping your face dropped away, and her expression darkened with clear, unmistakable displeasure.

She didn’t like that.

Not one bit.

For several long seconds she simply stared at you, breathing slowly through her nose as she processed your words. The rejection, the way you had shoved her back and recoiled from her touch the second it was over, landed like an insult. Like you were trying to scrub her off of you now that she had given you exactly what your body had clearly wanted.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and dangerously quiet.

“So that’s how it is,” she said, each word clipped and cold. “You can moan and shake and come on my tongue like a desperate little sinner, but the second it’s over you want to pretend I forced something on you that you didn’t want.”

She took one slow step closer, crowding you back against the baptismal font again. Her eyes were hard now, the earlier almost-reverent hunger replaced by something sharper.

“You don’t get to do that,” she said quietly. “You don’t get to fall apart on my mouth and then act like I’m the one who made you filthy. You were already wet before I even touched you. You were already dripping when I put my face between your legs.”

She reached out and gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her even as fresh tears tracked down your face.

“You can cry and call yourself unclean all you want,” Nikki said, voice low and furious. “But don’t you dare act like I’m the only one who’s dirty here.”

Nikki’s patience snapped completely.

Without another word, she grabbed you by the shoulders and spun you around, shoving you forward until your hips hit the cold stone edge of the baptismal font. Before you could resist, she forced you down, bending you over it. Your hands scrabbled against the rim as she pushed, and then she grabbed your wrists and shoved them into the water inside the font, forcing your palms flat against the bottom.

The water was cold.

“Since you’re so fucking dirty now,” she growled against your ear, voice low and furious, “I’ll make you clean.”

She pressed down on the back of your head with one hand, forcing your face closer to the water’s surface. Not quite submerging you, not yet, but close enough that you could feel the cold water lapping at your chin and lips. It felt less like baptism and more like drowning. Your breath came in short, panicked gasps as she held you there, her body pressed tight against your back.

Her other hand moved without hesitation.

She reached down between your legs from behind, shoving your bunched habit higher and sliding her fingers straight into your underwear. She didn’t tease. Two fingers pushed between your still-slick folds and sank into you in one smooth, deliberate thrust.

You cried out.

The sound was loud and broken in the empty church.

Nikki didn’t let you stay down. She fisted her hand in your hair and yanked your head back up, pulling you upright just enough that your back arched and your mouth fell open on a loud, involuntary moan as her fingers curled inside you.

“There it is,” she hissed against your ear, voice thick with anger and satisfaction. “That’s what you sound like when you stop pretending.”

She kept her fingers buried deep, curling them slowly, deliberately, pressing against that spot inside you that made your legs shake. Her other hand stayed tight in your hair, holding your head back so she could hear every sound you made.

“You want to call yourself unclean?” she muttered, thrusting her fingers deeper. “Fine. Then I’ll fuck the sin out of you right here in your father’s church. Maybe then you’ll stop acting like you’re better than me.”

She pushed your head down toward the water again, just enough to make your breath catch in fear, before yanking it back up once more as her fingers started to move in a slow, steady rhythm inside you.

“Moan again,” she ordered coldly. “Let me hear how dirty you really are.”

Then said i, woe is me! For i am undone; because i am a man of unclean lips.. For mine eyes have seen the king, the LORD of hosts.

Nikki didn’t give you time to recover.

She kept you bent over the baptismal font, one hand fisted tightly in your hair while the other worked between your legs from behind. Her fingers moved with steady, deliberate thrusts, not fast, but deep and purposeful, curling inside you with every stroke. The wet sound of her fingers moving in and out of you was obscene in the quiet church.

Then she pushed your head down.

She forced your face into the water without warning.

The cold shock hit you instantly. Your hands, already planted inside the font, slipped against the stone bottom as you instinctively tried to push back up. Bubbles rushed from your mouth. Your lungs burned almost immediately. Panic exploded in your chest as Nikki held you there, her grip in your hair unrelenting while her fingers kept fucking you from behind.

She held you under for several long, terrifying seconds.

Just when your body started to thrash in real fear, she yanked your head back up.

You gasped loudly, coughing and choking as air flooded your lungs. Water streamed down your face and into your open mouth. Before you could even catch your breath properly, a broken moan tore out of you, because her fingers never stopped moving. They kept thrusting deep and steady inside you, curling against that spot that made your legs shake even as you sputtered and tried to breathe.

Nikki leaned over your back, her voice low and cold against your ear.

“Breathe while you can.”

She shoved your head back down.

This time she held you under longer.

Your hands scrabbled uselessly against the bottom of the font. Your chest seized as your body fought for air that wasn’t there. The only thing keeping you grounded was the relentless movement of her fingers inside you, thrusting, curling, fucking you even while she held you underwater. The contrast was brutal. Pleasure and panic twisted together so tightly you couldn’t separate them.

She pulled you up again.

You came up coughing hard, water pouring from your mouth as you desperately sucked in air. Your entire body was shaking. Tears mixed with the water streaming down your face. And still, still, her fingers kept moving inside you, slow and deep and merciless.

A loud, broken moan escaped you before you could stop it.

Nikki’s grip in your hair tightened.

“Again.”

She pushed you back under.

This time she held you longer than before. Your lungs screamed. Your body jerked and fought, hands slipping against the wet stone. The only constant was her fingers, thrusting into you steadily, curling with purpose every time she pushed deep. You could feel yourself clenching around her despite the terror, your body betraying you even as your mind screamed in panic.

When she finally yanked you back up, you were gasping and sobbing at the same time. Water streamed from your nose and mouth. You barely had a second to breathe before another moan was ripped out of you, louder this time, because her fingers never paused. They kept fucking you through every desperate, choking breath.

Nikki’s voice was calm. Almost conversational.

“You wanted to be clean,” she said quietly, pushing your head down again. “So I’m cleaning you.”

She held you under.

Longer.

Your vision started to spot at the edges. Your body thrashed harder. The only thing anchoring you was the steady, relentless thrust of her fingers inside you. When she finally pulled you up this time, you came up coughing violently, nearly retching as you fought for air.

And still she didn’t stop fucking you.

She kept the rhythm slow and deep, her fingers curling inside you with every thrust while you gasped and sobbed and moaned helplessly over the edge of the baptismal font. Every time you managed to suck in a proper breath, she would push your head back down into the water again, holding you there until your body started to panic, until your lungs burned, until the only sounds you could make were desperate and broken.

Over and over.

She didn’t speak much. She didn’t need to. The message was clear in the way she kept submerging you and fucking you at the same time, in the way she only let you up long enough to hear you moan before forcing you back under.

Nikki’s fingers turned rougher.

There was no more slow, deliberate rhythm. She started fucking you harder, deeper, faster, her fingers thrusting into you with sharp, punishing strokes while her thumb ground against your clit. Every thrust was deliberate and brutal, the wet sound of her hand moving between your legs loud and obscene in the empty church.

She kept your head in her grip, forcing you down into the baptismal water again without warning.

This time she held you under longer.

Your hands slipped against the stone bottom as you thrashed, lungs already burning. Panic clawed up your throat as bubbles rushed from your mouth. And still her fingers kept fucking you, hard and relentless, curling viciously inside you every time she thrust deep. The contrast was sickening. Pleasure and terror twisting together so tightly you couldn’t separate them.

When she finally yanked your head back up, you came up coughing and choking, water pouring from your mouth as you desperately sucked in air. A loud, broken moan tore out of you before you could stop it.

Nikki leaned over your back, her voice low and vicious against your ear.

“That’s it. Moan for me. Let the whole fucking church hear how filthy you are.”

She shoved your head back down before you could even catch your breath properly.

She held you under again, longer this time, while her fingers pounded into you from behind. Your body jerked and fought, hands scrambling uselessly against the bottom of the font. The only constant was the brutal rhythm of her hand between your legs, fucking you hard and deep while she kept you drowning.

She pulled you up again.

You gasped and sobbed at the same time, water streaming down your face as another helpless moan escaped you. Your legs were shaking so badly you could barely stay upright.

Nikki’s voice was cold and mocking as she spoke right against your ear.

“You feel that? Every time I push you under, you clench around my fingers like a desperate little whore. You’re going to cum like this, aren’t you? Scared I won’t let you up. Scared you’re going to drown in the same water your father uses to baptize people.”

She forced your head down again.

This time she didn’t pull you up as quickly.

Your lungs screamed. Your vision started to blur at the edges. And still her fingers kept fucking you, rough, fast, and merciless. You could feel yourself getting closer despite the terror, your body tightening around her hand even as panic flooded your system.

She yanked you up just as black spots began to dance in your vision.

You came up coughing violently, choking on water as you gasped for air. A loud, desperate moan ripped out of your throat the second you could breathe.

Nikki didn’t give you long.

“You’re tainting it,” she hissed, pushing your head down again. “You hear me? You’re tainting the holy water with your sin. Every time you moan, every time you cum, you’re making this whole church filthy. The walls are listening. God is listening. And you’re too fucking weak to stop yourself from cumming while I drown you in it.”

She held you under longer this time.

Her fingers were relentless, thrusting hard and deep, curling viciously every time she pushed all the way inside you. She only pulled your head back up when your body started to go limp from lack of air.

You came up sobbing and moaning at the same time, water pouring from your mouth as another broken cry tore out of you.

Nikki’s voice was dark and satisfied.

“That’s it. Keep making those sounds. I want to hear you cum scared. I want to feel you fall apart while you’re terrified I’m not going to let you breathe again. Cum for me like the dirty little sinner you are. Right here in your father’s church. Right over the water you just tainted with your cunt.”

Nikki felt it the second you started to tip over the edge.

Your body tightened around her fingers, your thighs shaking violently as she kept fucking you hard and deep from behind. She could feel how close you were, the way you clenched around her, the way your hips jerked despite everything.

A broken, pathetic little whimper escaped you.

“Oh… god…”

The words were barely audible, half-sob, half-moan.

Nikki’s reaction was immediate and vicious.

She slammed your head down into the water without warning, forcing your face completely under and holding you there. At the same time, she fucked you harder, her fingers driving into you with brutal, punishing thrusts while her thumb rubbed tight, fast circles over your clit.

“Stop calling for a false god,” she snarled against your ear, voice low and furious even as she kept you submerged. “He’s not listening to you. He never was.”

She held you under as your orgasm crashed through you.

Your body seized violently. A muffled, desperate sound tore out of you underwater as you came hard around her fingers, clenching and pulsing, your walls fluttering and leaking around her hand. Your legs kicked weakly. Your hands slipped and scrambled against the stone bottom of the font as you struggled, lungs burning, vision going dark at the edges while pleasure ripped through you so intensely it bordered on pain.

Nikki didn’t let you up.

She kept her hand fisted in your hair, keeping your head forced down as she continued fucking you through it, rough, deep thrusts that drew out every last spasm of your orgasm while you thrashed and leaked around her fingers underwater.

“You hear me?” she growled, voice dark and possessive. “I’m your god now. I’m the only one who decides whether you breathe. I’m the only one who decides when you get to cum. And you just came for me while I held you under like the filthy little sinner you are.”

She finally yanked your head back up.

You came up coughing and choking violently, water pouring from your mouth and nose as you gasped for air. Your entire body was shaking. Tears streamed down your face as you sobbed between desperate breaths, still clenching weakly around her fingers even as she slowly eased them out of you.

For mine iniquities are gone over mine head; as an heavy burden they are too heavy for me. My wounds stink and are corrupt because of my foolishness. I am troubled; i am bowed down greatly; i go mourning all the day long. For my loins are filled with loathsome disease; and there is no soundness in my flesh. I am feeble and sore broken; i have roared my reason of the disquietness of my heart.

The afternoon light slanted through the wide windows of the corner bistro, turning the polished wood of the table into something warmer, softer at the edges. You were curled into Rhea’s side in the deep booth, your smaller frame tucked against the solid line of her body like it had found its exact place months ago and never wanted to leave. Her arm rested across your shoulders, heavy and steady, the sleeve of her black hoodie pushed up just enough to show the dark lines of ink along her forearm. Every so often her fingers flexed, a slow, absent drag of callused skin against the back of your neck that sent a quiet shiver down your spine.

She had given you the necklace that morning in the hotel room, a thin gold chain with a small, faceted pendant that caught the light every time you moved. Her hands had been careful, almost reverent, as she’d fastened the clasp at your nape, her breath brushing the shell of your ear while she told you how good it looked against your skin. You’d turned in her arms afterward, pressing your face into the curve of her throat, and she’d laughed that low, private sound she only made when the two of you were alone.

Now the necklace rested warm against your collarbone, hidden beneath the layered collar of your cropped jacket. The jacket itself was one of her older pieces of merch, softened from wear, the graphic faded just enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with low-waisted jeans and the kind of delicate makeup that photographed well for the stories you’d already posted earlier, subtle shimmer at the inner corners of your eyes, lips tinted the exact shade that made her stare a second longer than necessary.

Rhea’s plate sat half-finished in front of her, grilled chicken and greens pushed around with her fork while she listened to you talk about the brand meeting you’d taken on your phone that morning. Her dark eyes stayed on your face, the corner of her mouth lifting every time your hands moved in those quick, expressive arcs you couldn’t quite turn off. She didn’t interrupt. She never did when you got like this, bright, a little spoiled, entirely hers.

Eventually the conversation drifted, the way it always did on days like this.

“I need it tonight,” she said, voice low enough that it stayed between the two of you. Her thumb kept tracing that same slow line at your nape. “She’s had the title long enough. After everything she pulled, the way she used Dom to twist the knife… I want it back. I’m done letting her rewrite the story.”

You felt the shift before you could stop it. Your fingers, which had been resting lightly on her thigh under the table, tightened just a fraction against the denim. Your lower lip pushed out, not dramatic, just enough that you had to turn your face into the soft cotton of her hoodie to hide it. The mention of Dom still landed like a small, unnecessary sting, even though you knew exactly where Rhea stood. You were here. You had been here through the travel and the long nights and the quiet mornings after. Still, the words pulled something petty and tender to the surface.

Rhea noticed instantly. She always noticed. Her arm tightened around you, drawing you closer until your cheek pressed properly against her shoulder. The hand at your neck slid up, fingers threading gently into your hair.

“There it is,” she murmured, the teasing edge soft rather than sharp. “That little pout. I can feel it.”

You huffed, the sound muffled against her. “It’s nothing. Just… you’re talking about her and him and all that history like I’m not literally sitting right here attached to you.”

A quiet laugh moved through her chest. She shifted enough to press her lips to the top of your head, lingering there. The kiss was unhurried, the kind that said she had all the time in the world for this exact version of you.

“You know it’s not like that,” she said against your hair. “Liv’s the obstacle. Dom was… a mistake she tried to turn into leverage. You’re the one who shows up to every show in my gear. You’re the one who lets me post the candids even when you complain about how you look. You’re the one I come back to when the cameras are off.” Her fingers tightened in your hair, gentle but sure. “This win is for me. And for you. Because I want you to see me take it back.”

You stayed tucked against her for a moment longer, letting the words settle. The jealousy ebbed, replaced by that familiar warmth that always followed when she reminded you, without making a production of it, exactly where you stood. When you finally lifted your head, your expression had softened into something closer to fond exasperation.

“Still rude to bring up your ex-situationship when your girlfriend is wearing your merch and everything,” you muttered, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a small, reluctant smile.

Rhea’s grin widened, the one that crinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes. She reached for her phone on the table, angling it toward you with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

“Hold still a second.”

“Mami, don’t—” The shutter clicked before you could finish the protest. The photo caught you exactly as you were: curled into her side, one hand still resting on her thigh, the necklace just visible where your jacket had shifted, your face half-turned into her with that half-pout, half-smile still lingering. She didn’t show your full face, didn’t post anything that crossed the line you’d both quietly agreed on. Just the intimate, ordinary shape of you against her.

She typed for a moment, then set the phone down. You groaned, burying your face in her shoulder again.

“You can’t post that. I look so bad right now. My hair’s all flat from leaning on you and I’m pouting like an actual child.”

Her laugh came again, richer this time, the sound vibrating through both of you. She set the phone aside properly and used her free hand to tilt your chin up, thumb brushing along your jaw until you met her eyes. The look there was steady, warm, utterly certain.

“You look like mine,” she said simply. “And you look perfect. My spoiled princess who gets all jealous over nothing and still lets me post the evidence.”

You swatted her arm, light and playful, but didn’t pull away when she leaned in and kissed you. It was slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like the faint sweetness of her drink and the quiet promise of later. When she drew back, her forehead rested against yours for a beat.

“Gotta head to the arena soon,” she said eventually, voice low. “Get sorted before the show. But right now…” Her hand found yours on the table, fingers lacing together. “Right now I’m exactly where I want to be.”

You nodded, the last of the pout dissolving into something softer. Outside, the city moved on, cars, footsteps, the distant pulse of traffic, but inside the booth the world had narrowed to the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the quiet certainty that whatever happened under the lights tonight, she would come back to this. To you.

You stayed curled against her side a little longer, talking about nothing important, the video you wanted to film from your seat later, the way she always looked unfairly good in her gear, the small plans you’d already started making for after the show. Her hand never left yours. Her thumb kept tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. And when she finally checked the time on her phone and sighed, you only pressed closer for one last moment before letting her go.

She would win. You knew it in the set of her shoulders, in the quiet fire behind her eyes. And when she did, you would be there in the front row, wearing her name across your chest, the necklace she’d given you hidden beneath the fabric, exactly where it belonged.

Back in the hotel room, the curtains were drawn just enough to soften the late afternoon light into something golden and forgiving. You sat at the narrow vanity, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning in close to the mirror as you traced the final wing of your eyeliner with steady fingers. The cool tip of the pen glided along your lid in one smooth pull, and you tilted your head slightly, checking the symmetry with the same focused little frown you always wore when you wanted everything to photograph exactly right. A soft mist of setting spray cooled your skin afterward, and you waved a hand in front of your face to help it dry, the faint floral scent of it mixing with the warmer, earthier trace of Rhea’s cologne still lingering in the air from when she’d passed behind you earlier.

She was across the room now, gear bag unzipped and spilled open across the bed like it had exploded on purpose. Her broad shoulders flexed under the hoodie as she dug through folded shirts and taped wrists, the muscles in her back shifting visibly when she bent deeper into the main compartment. You watched her reflection in the mirror more than your own, a small, private smile tugging at your freshly glossed mouth.

“I’m so excited for tonight,” you said, voice light and a little dreamy as you reached for your blush. “Front row again. I don’t even care if people recognise me sometimes. It’s not about that. It’s just… watching you out there. You get so locked in. Everything else disappears and it’s just you moving like you own the whole ring. It’s the best feeling.”

Rhea made a low sound of acknowledgment, the kind that rumbled in her chest without needing words. She straightened up, one hand braced on the bed, and glanced over at you. Her dark hair had fallen forward a little; she pushed it back with her forearm.

“You always say that,” she replied, but the corner of her mouth lifted. There was fondness there, the quiet kind that made your stomach flip even after all this time.

You swiveled on the stool to face her properly, still holding the blush compact. “Because it’s true. And also because you look stupidly hot when you’re folding people in half and throwing them around like they’re nothing. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

That earned you a short laugh, rough around the edges. She shook her head and went back to the bag, but you caught the way her ears went a little pink at the tips. You loved that, how even now, after everything, you could still pull that reaction out of her with nothing but honesty.

You turned back to the mirror for a second, dabbing color onto your cheeks with the pad of your finger, but your eyes kept drifting to her in the reflection. “I hate the part where you have to go get ready without me, though. That little gap where I’m just… waiting. It feels too long every single time. But then you come out and it’s worth it. Always.”

Rhea didn’t answer right away. She was crouched now, rifling through a side pocket, the fabric of her jeans pulling tight across her thighs. You bit your lower lip without thinking, then caught yourself and looked away before she could notice in the mirror.

A beat later you remembered the real mission.

“Mami,” you called, drawing the word out just enough to sound spoiled in the way you both knew she secretly liked. “You promised me those gear shorts. The black ones with the little logo on the hip? I want to wear them tonight with that cropped top I brought. They’ll look so cute over the fishnets I packed.”

She paused, one hand still inside the bag. “You’re really gonna make me dig for them right now?”

“You said I could wear them,” you reminded her, turning on the stool again so you could watch her properly. Your foot swung lightly in the air. “And I’m doing my makeup like a good girl. The least you can do is find the shorts you promised your girlfriend.”

Rhea exhaled through her nose, but there was no real irritation in it, just that familiar mix of exasperation and indulgence she only ever aimed at you. She shifted the bag, unzipped another compartment, and started pulling things out one by one; a spare pair of boots, a rolled-up towel, her entrance jacket. Each item landed on the bed with a soft thump.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” she muttered, but you could hear the smile in it.

You giggled, the sound bright and unselfconscious, and went back to your makeup. The mascara wand felt light between your fingers as you swept it upward in careful strokes. “I’m not even doing anything bad yet. Just reminding you. Tonight though?” You caught her eye in the mirror and pulled the exact face you planned to use from the crowd later, eyes half-lidded, mouth in a dramatic little pout, one eyebrow raised like you were deeply unimpressed. Then you broke into another laugh. “I’m gonna do that from the front row. Maybe even pretend to boo a little. Just enough to make myself giggle. You’ll see it and you won’t be able to do a single thing about it because you’ll be busy being all intimidating and sexy.”

Rhea finally straightened up, the black gear shorts dangling from two fingers. She held them up like evidence, one brow arched. “These the ones?”

Your whole face lit up. You abandoned the mascara and reached for them, but she held them just out of reach for a second, teasing. “Mami, give. You promised.”

She stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep looking at her face. The shorts were handed over, and you immediately pressed them to your chest like a prize, already picturing how they’d sit low on your hips with the cropped top and the way the logo would peek out just right for photos.

“You’re gonna wear those and then sit there pulling faces at me the whole match?” she asked, voice low and amused. Her free hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering at your jaw. “You know I’ll remember every single one.”

“That’s the fun part,” you said, softer now, leaning into her touch. “You can’t do anything while you’re working. I get to be a little menace and you just have to take it until later.” Your fingers curled around her wrist, squeezing once. “I’d never go too far. Just enough to make myself laugh. You know that.”

Rhea’s expression shifted into something warmer, heavier. She leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another at the corner of your mouth, careful not to smudge the gloss you’d just finished. “I know exactly what you’re like,” she murmured against your skin. “And I know you’re gonna look good as hell in those shorts. Front row, my gear on you, making trouble from ten feet away. Can’t decide if I’m annoyed or turned on.”

You grinned up at her, triumphant and a little breathless. “Both. Definitely both.”

She shook her head again, but her hand stayed at your jaw, thumb stroking once more before she finally let go. 

Rhea turned back to the bag to finish packing, but not before glancing over her shoulder one last time. “Hurry up with that makeup, princess. I still gotta get my own gear sorted before I head out.”

You spun back to the mirror, already reaching for your highlighter, but your smile stayed wide and warm. The shorts rested across your thighs like a secret, and every brush of product across your skin felt like part of the ritual, the one that always ended with you in the front row, heart racing, exactly where you wanted to be.

You finished the last swipe of gloss and set the tube down with a soft click, then stood and stepped out of your jeans in one fluid motion. The gear shorts came on next, black, snug, riding high on your thighs with the small logo sitting exactly where it was meant to. You gave the waistband a little tug, twisted once in the mirror to watch the way they hugged, and felt a spark of satisfaction low in your belly. They were shorter than anything you’d normally wear in public, but that was the entire point tonight.

Rhea was still at the bed, gear bag half-zipped, muttering about missing tape when you crossed the room. You didn’t walk so much as flow, quiet steps, then a sudden, catlike climb up her back the second she straightened. Arms looped over her shoulders, chest pressed flush to the solid warmth of her, one leg hooking around her hip so you could nuzzle into the side of her neck. Your laugh came out low and pleased when she stumbled half a step under the surprise weight of you.

“Mami,” you breathed against her skin, voice sweet and a little wicked, “you have to look. They fit so good. Don’t you think they look good on me?”

She made a sound that was half groan, half reluctant laugh, one hand automatically sliding under your thigh to keep you steady while the other tried to finish zipping the bag. “Fifteen minutes, princess. I don’t have time for you to be a menace right now.”

But she wasn’t pushing you off. Her fingers flexed against the bare skin of your thigh, and when you shifted higher, both legs now bracketing her waist, arms draped lazily around her neck like you planned to stay there, she only adjusted her grip and kept moving around the room with you attached. You took full advantage. Lips brushed the line of her jaw, then lower, light and teasing. Your nails traced idle patterns along the back of her neck, dipping just under the collar of her hoodie to find warm skin. Every time she tried to reach for something in the bag you moved with her, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate little sway that made the shorts ride up another fraction.

“You’re gonna make me late,” she warned, but her voice had gone rougher, the pretend irritation undercut by the way her free hand kept wandering, up your spine, down again, squeezing your hip through the thin fabric like she couldn’t quite help it.

You giggled against her throat, the sound vibrating between you. “That’s the fun part. You can’t do anything about it yet.” Your eyes flicked once to the small bag you’d tucked into the outer pocket of her gear bag earlier that morning, the one she wouldn’t find until she was already at the arena, boots laced, focus narrowing. The thought sent a fresh little thrill through you. You pressed closer, mouth finding the spot just below her ear. “I’m gonna sit in the front row in these exact shorts and think about how you looked at me when I put them on. Every time you throw someone around I’m gonna remember how strong you feel right now.”

Rhea stopped pretending to pack. The bag sat forgotten on the bed while both her hands came up to hold you properly, palms broad and warm against the backs of your thighs. She carried you the few steps to the wall and leaned you there, not hard, just enough to pin you in place while she looked at you. Her gaze dragged down the length of you, lingering on the way the shorts sat, on the strip of skin between them and the cropped top you’d thrown on. When her eyes came back up they were darker, amused, and unmistakably fond.

“You’re a spoiled little tease,” she said, but the words came out like praise. One hand left your thigh and slid upward, slow, deliberate, along your side, over your shoulder, until her palm curved around the back of your neck. Her fingers pressed in just enough to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet her eyes. “Behave.”

You pouted, but it was all for show. Your legs tightened around her waist, pulling her that last inch closer. “Make me.”

She huffed a quiet laugh and kissed you instead, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that said she was memorizing the taste of your gloss and the way you melted against her even while you were being difficult. When she finally pulled back her thumb brushed your lower lip, wiping away a smudge she’d caused. “Later,” she promised, low and certain. “When I’m not about to walk out the door.”

The next few minutes passed in the same delicious, stolen way. You stayed wrapped around her while she made one last check of the bag, your mouth at her neck, your hands slipping under her hoodie to trace the lines of muscle along her ribs. Every time she sighed your name like a warning you only laughed softly and pressed another kiss to her pulse. She let you. She always let you, even when time was short, indulging the spoiled, playful version of you that came out strongest right before she had to leave.

When the fifteen minutes were gone she finally set you down, though her hands lingered at your waist like she was reluctant to let go. You stayed close, swaying into her space, still half-draped against her side while she shouldered the gear bag. At the door she paused, one hand on the handle, and looked back at you with that mix of exasperation and open want that always made your stomach flip.

“Be good until I see you out there,” she said.

Then her free hand came down in a quick, playful slap against your ass, sharp enough through the thin shorts to make you yelp and laugh at the same time. The sting bloomed warm and bright, and she was already stepping into the hallway, but she glanced back once more, eyes dropping to the way the shorts hugged you before flicking up to your face.

“Whatever you hid in my bag,” she added, voice low with promise, “we’re talking about it later.”

The door clicked shut behind her. You leaned against it for a long moment, biting your lip against the grin, the warmth of her handprint still tingling on your skin. The room felt bigger without her in it, quieter, but the anticipation hummed steady in your chest, the front row waiting, the shorts still on, and the small bag she would find exactly when you wanted her to. You pushed off the door, already reaching for the rest of your outfit, a little breathless and entirely pleased with yourself.

You stayed leaning against the door for a beat after it closed, the faint warmth from her handprint still blooming across your skin through the thin fabric of the shorts. A quiet laugh slipped out of you, soft and satisfied, before you finally pushed off and crossed the room to your own bag. The gear shorts sat high on your thighs exactly the way you’d wanted, and every step made the hem brush against your skin in a way that kept the memory of her hands fresh.

The panties you’d slipped into the outer pocket of her gear bag earlier had been nothing more than a distraction, a little something for her to find while she was lacing up at the arena and think was the real surprise. The actual game was still here, tucked safely in your things where she would never have thought to look.

You knelt, unzipped the side compartment you’d kept separate, and pulled out the folded black t-shirt first. It was one of Liv’s older merch pieces, but you’d taken scissors to it the night before, cropped shorter so it would hit just above the waistband of the shorts, the sleeves cut and distressed into ragged edges, the collar stretched and worn so it would slip off one shoulder if you moved the right way. A few careful rips along the hem gave it that lived-in, intentional look that would photograph well under the arena lights. You shook it out, holding it up against yourself in the mirror, and felt the same little spark of mischief that had started at lunch when Rhea had brought up Liv and Dom and made that small, unnecessary twist settle in your chest.

The sign came next, small, rectangular, the kind that could be tucked into your bag and pulled out at the perfect moment. You’d printed the picture yourself: Liv’s face centered inside a pink heart, the text beneath it in clean, bold letters that read “hot girls love mommy morgan.” It was ridiculous. It was perfect. You folded it again and slid it back into the bag for now, already imagining how it would look held up from the front row when the cameras inevitably swung your way.

You were up on every trend. The WAG bit had been everywhere lately, girlfriends showing up to games in another player’s jersey just to catch the reaction on camera, the way their partners’ faces shifted from confusion to that split-second flare of possessiveness before they remembered they were being filmed. It was harmless content gold. And after Rhea had spent part of lunch talking about taking the title off Liv, about everything that had gone down with Dom, the idea had slotted into place like it was meant to be. You weren’t the jealous one in this relationship. She was. The one whose jaw would tighten at the thought of anyone else’s name anywhere near what was hers. You were usually the easy one, the one who curled into her side and let her post the candids and wore her gear without a second thought.

But tonight felt like the right night for a little payback dressed up as a trend.

You pulled the cropped Liv shirt over your head, letting it settle against your skin. It was soft from wear and the alterations you’d made, the fabric brushing the waistband of Rhea’s shorts in a way that made the whole outfit feel deliberate. The cropped jacket you’d planned to wear over it stayed on the bed for now, you’d keep it on until you were settled in your seat, then slip it off at the exact right second. The sign would stay hidden until the moment felt perfect. You already knew how you’d film it; phone angled low, your own face mostly out of frame, just enough to catch her expression when she finally noticed from the ring. Nothing that would show her full face if she didn’t want it. Just the reaction. Just the content.

You turned in the mirror, checking the lines of the outfit from every angle. The shorts still sat exactly where they belonged, Rhea’s logo visible at your hip. The Liv shirt peeked out beneath the open jacket you shrugged on for the walk to the car. You looked like trouble and you knew it. The kind of trouble that would make Rhea’s eyes narrow the second she clocked it from the apron, the kind she would absolutely bring up later in that low voice she used when she was pretending to be annoyed but was already planning exactly how she was going to handle you once the lights went down.

You smiled at your reflection, small and private, then reached for your phone to check the time. The car would be downstairs soon. You still had to do one last touch-up on your makeup and make sure the sign was folded small enough to fit in your bag without wrinkling. The thrill of it sat warm in your chest, not real jealousy, just the delicious knowledge that you were about to hand Rhea the exact thing that would light her up, all while sitting front row in her gear shorts like the picture of innocence.

She had no idea. And that was half the fun.

You zipped your bag closed, slung it over your shoulder, and gave the room one last glance before heading for the door. The shorts hugged you with every step. The hidden sign and the cut-up shirt sat like a secret against your skin. And somewhere across the city, Rhea was already at the arena, probably finding the panties right about now and thinking that was the end of your little game.

She was going to lose it when she saw the rest.

You couldn’t wait.

You arrived with time to spare, the private car Rhea had arranged sliding up to the talent entrance like it always did. Security waved you through with the same easy nod they’d given you for months now, no questions, just a quiet “she’s got you set up front again.” The hallways smelled of cold concrete and the faint metallic bite of pyro residue from the earlier dark match. You moved through them without hurry, bag slung over one shoulder, the cropped jacket still zipped over the Liv shirt so the surprise stayed exactly where you wanted it for now.

Your seat was waiting exactly where she always made sure it was: front row, slightly off to the side of the commentary table, prime real estate that gave you an unbroken view of the entire ring while keeping you just far enough from the hard cam that you could shift and lean without becoming the main spectacle. Close enough that when Rhea came out you’d see every line of her face, every shift in her shoulders. She never wanted anything less than the best for you, even when she was the one walking into a title match.

You settled in as the undercard rolled on, the crowd noise swelling and dipping around you like a living thing. The barricade in front of your section was already warm from other hands, the padded top slightly sticky under your forearms when you leaned forward during a particularly loud near-fall. You watched with genuine interest at first, the crisp tags, the way the wrestlers moved in the bright lights, the little details you’d started noticing after so many of these nights. Your phone stayed mostly in your bag; you weren’t here to film everything tonight. Just the one moment you had planned.

Between matches you finally shrugged out of the cropped jacket, letting it drape over the back of your seat. The air-conditioned chill kissed your arms and the exposed strip of stomach above the waistband of Rhea’s gear shorts. The Liv shirt settled against your skin exactly as you’d altered it to, cropped high, one shoulder already slipping a little from the stretched collar, the distressed edges soft against your ribs. You didn’t announce it. You just leaned forward again, elbows on the barricade, chin resting on your folded hands for a moment while you watched the next match start. The logo on Rhea’s shorts sat visible at your hip. The Liv shirt did its own thing above it. The contrast was deliberate and quiet for now.

You stayed like that through the next two bouts, body relaxed but alert, one knee bouncing lightly against the barricade in time with the crowd’s bigger reactions. Every so often your fingers drifted up to touch the delicate pendant at your throat, the one she’d given you that morning, rolling it between your fingertips while your eyes stayed on the ring. The excitement for her match sat warm and steady in your chest, the same feeling you always got when you were this close. You loved seeing her in her element, loved the way the whole arena seemed to narrow down to her once she stepped through the curtain. But underneath it ran that smaller, brighter thread of mischief. The shirt. The folded sign still tucked safe in your bag. The knowledge that she had no idea what you were wearing under the jacket she’d watched you put on back at the hotel.

You shifted again, leaning more fully on the barricade now, arms crossed on top of it, weight on your forearms. The position let you watch the ring without straining, and it also gave you the perfect angle to glance sideways at the hard cam when it swung past. Your mouth curved into a small, private smile that no one around you would have understood. You weren’t the jealous one. She was. But after lunch, after she’d talked about Liv and Dom and made that tiny, unnecessary sting settle behind your ribs, this felt like the right kind of trouble. Harmless. Trendy. Content. And entirely yours to spring when the moment was perfect.

For now you just waited, body loose against the barricade, the arena lights shifting colors above you, the crowd noise rolling like waves. The gear shorts hugged your thighs every time you adjusted your stance. The cut-up Liv shirt moved with your breathing. And somewhere backstage Rhea was already in her gear, probably still thinking the panties were the only surprise waiting for her tonight.

You bit your lower lip against another quiet laugh and stayed exactly where you were, front row, perfectly placed, ready to be exactly as much trouble as you’d planned.

The arena lights dropped into that familiar pre-entrance blackout, and the first few notes of Liv’s music hit like a spark to dry kindling. The crowd surged around you in a single, roaring wave. You didn’t even think twice. Your hand slipped into your bag, fingers closing around the folded sign, and you pulled it out in one smooth motion. It wasn’t huge, but it was bright enough under the shifting spotlights, Liv’s face framed in that ridiculous pink heart, the words “hot girls love mommy morgan” bold and unapologetic across the bottom.

You stood up properly, leaning your hips against the barricade, and held the sign high with both hands like you were presenting it to the entire front row. A little dramatic, a little messy, exactly the way you got when you were excited about content. Your cropped jacket was already gone, so the cut-up Liv shirt was on full display above Rhea’s gear shorts, the contrast loud and intentional. You didn’t expect anything from it. Not really. Liv knew who you were, Rhea’s girlfriend, the one who showed up to every show in her merch, the one who never caused problems. She probably wouldn’t even clock you in the sea of signs and screaming fans. That had been the whole point of the bit: a cute little trend reaction from Rhea later, something harmless and funny for your page. You hadn’t factored Liv actually noticing.

She came out in full chaos, all bright smiles and bouncing energy, dancing down the ramp with the kind of confidence that made the arena feel smaller. The crowd ate it up. She high-fived hands on both sides, posed for phones, blew kisses to the hard cam like she had all the time in the world. You kept the sign up for the first few seconds, waving it once or twice with a little grin, then lowered it slightly when she passed your section without so much as a glance. That was fine. Expected, even. You leaned back on the barricade, one elbow hooked over the top, and watched her finish the rest of her entrance with genuine amusement. She climbed the steps, stepped through the ropes, and made her way to the nearest corner like she always did, slow, deliberate, putting on the full show.

That was when it happened.

Liv turned on the middle rope, one arm hooked over the top, hips cocked, free hand running through her hair as she soaked in the reaction. Her eyes swept the crowd in that lazy, practiced arc… and then they landed on you. On the shirt. On the sign still loosely in your hands. You saw the exact second it clicked, the little spark of recognition, the way her head tilted, the slow, delighted smile that spread across her face like she’d just been handed the perfect gift.

She didn’t look away.

Instead she stayed right there on the ropes, twisting her body toward your side of the ring, and pointed straight at you with two fingers. The crowd noise shifted, people around you starting to notice, phones coming up. Liv’s smile turned sharper, playful in that signature way of hers. She brought her mic up and leaned into it without breaking eye contact with you.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, voice bright and teasing over the speakers. “Look at this. Rhea’s girl showing up in my shirt? Holding my sign?” She laughed, low and delighted, and blew you an exaggerated kiss. “Hot girls really do love mommy Morgan, huh? You’re making it very hard for me to focus on the match, sweetheart.”

She stayed there for another beat, posing extra for the cameras while still angled toward you, one hand on her hip, the other still pointing. The crowd ate it up, half cheering, half losing their minds at the direct call-out. Liv winked, slow and obvious, then finally dropped down into the ring proper, but not before blowing one more kiss in your direction and mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “text me” just to be extra.

You felt your face go hot, a surprised little laugh bursting out of you before you could stop it. You hadn’t planned for this part at all. The sign suddenly felt heavier in your hands. Around you, people were already filming, and you knew at least a few of them had caught your expression. You bit your lip, half embarrassed, half thrilled, and tucked the sign against your chest like it might hide the evidence. Your heart was doing something complicated behind your ribs, excitement and oh-god-Rhea-is-about-to-come-out mixing together in a way that made your stomach flip.

Liv was still in the ring, pacing now, but every few seconds her gaze flicked back toward your section with that same mischievous little smirk. She was playing with it. With you. Turning your harmless little trend into ammunition before Rhea even stepped through the curtain.

The second Rhea’s entrance music hit, the entire arena shifted. The bass rattled through the barricade under your forearms, and the crowd exploded into that deep, guttural roar that always made your skin prickle. You stayed exactly where you were, leaning forward on the padded top, the cut-up Liv shirt still on full display, the small sign now resting loosely against your thigh. Your heart was already beating faster, but not from excitement alone. You knew she’d heard at least some of what Liv had said. Gorilla wasn’t that far from the monitors.

She came out like she always did at first, shoulders back, stride long and sure, that cold, focused expression carved into her face. The lights caught the edges of her gear, the ink on her arms, the way her hair moved with every step. She paused at the top of the ramp the way she usually did, letting the moment breathe, letting the crowd feed her. But there was something tighter in the set of her jaw tonight. Something that hadn’t been there at lunch.

She started down the ramp, eyes scanning the crowd out of habit, and then they found you.

Everything about her shifted in one heartbeat.

Her steps didn’t falter, she was too professional for that, but her gaze locked on you like it had been pulled there by force. The Liv shirt. The sign still in your hand. The way you were leaning against the barricade like you hadn’t just lit a match and tossed it straight into her line of sight. Her eyes dragged over you once, slow and deliberate, and you felt it like a physical thing. The possessiveness that usually lived quiet and warm between you two had sharpened into something darker. Her jaw flexed hard enough that you could see the muscle jump even from this distance. One hand curled into a fist at her side before she forced it open again.

She kept moving, climbing the steps, stepping through the ropes, but her eyes kept cutting back to you between every motion. Not raging. Not yet. Just… burning. The kind of look that said she was already rewriting every plan she’d had for after the match.

Liv didn’t miss a single second of it.

She was still in the ring, mic in hand, pacing slow circles like she had all the time in the world. The second Rhea’s boots hit the mat, Liv lifted the mic again, voice bright and poisonous.

“Aw, look at that,” she cooed, loud enough for the entire arena to hear. “Rhea’s girl came dressed for the occasion. First I took Dom… now I’ve got her girlfriend too? Damn, Rhea. You really can’t keep anything, can you?”

The crowd reacted like a live wire, half screaming, half losing their minds at the direct shot. Liv laughed into the mic, turning just enough to glance at you again with that same flirty little smirk she’d given you earlier. She even blew you another kiss for good measure.

Rhea didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

She stood in the center of the ring, shoulders squared, chest rising slow and controlled, but her eyes never left yours. The jealousy was written across every line of her, tight through her shoulders, dark in the way her gaze pinned you in place. It wasn’t the playful kind from the hotel. This was the real thing, the part of her that didn’t like sharing, that hated the reminder of Dom and everything Liv had taken from her. And now you’d handed Liv the perfect weapon to twist the knife before the bell even rang.

Liv kept going, circling closer to Rhea’s side of the ring while still playing to your section. “She looks good in my colors though, doesn’t she? Maybe I should keep her after I keep  that title.”

Rhea’s head turned slowly toward Liv, but only for a second. Then her eyes were back on you. The look she gave you made your stomach flip hard, part promise, part warning, all heat. She looked like she was already imagining exactly how she was going to deal with you once this match was over. Like she was going to make you regret every single second of this little stunt in the most thorough way possible.

You stayed leaned against the barricade, sign still in your hand, heart hammering against your ribs. The arena noise was deafening, but all you could focus on was the way Rhea was staring at you like she was counting down the minutes until she could get her hands on you again.

And God, she looked like she was going to kill you after the match.

In the best and worst way possible.

You could barely focus on the match.

Every time Rhea looked your way, and she looked your way often, the jealousy rolled off her in thick, palpable waves. It wasn’t loud or uncontrolled. It was worse. It was the quiet, simmering kind that lived in the set of her shoulders and the way her eyes found you even when Liv was throwing strikes at her. Each glance landed like a promise. You’re in for it later. A long one. The kind where she would take her time reminding you exactly who you belonged to and why pulling this kind of stunt had been a spectacularly bad idea.

You shifted in your seat, forearms braced on the barricade, trying to watch the action in the ring, but your attention kept fracturing. The crowd was electric, screaming every time Rhea landed something heavy, but you kept catching the way her gaze flicked toward your section between moves. Not full rage. Just that dark, possessive heat that said she was cataloguing every detail, the Liv shirt still on your body, the empty space where the sign had been, the way you were leaning forward like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to hide or lean into the trouble you’d started.

The anger fueled her.

She moved like she had something to prove, and Liv felt every bit of it. Rhea was relentless, powerful, precise, folding Liv up in ways that made the crowd lose their minds. Every suplex, every strike, every time she dragged Liv back to the center of the ring instead of letting her crawl away, carried an extra edge. You saw it in the way her jaw stayed tight, in the controlled brutality of her offense. She wasn’t just winning. She was making a statement, and part of that statement was aimed squarely at you.

When she finally hit the move that ended it, lifting Liv clean and driving her down with that signature force, the arena detonated. The referee’s hand slapped the mat three times and it was over. Rhea rose to her feet, chest heaving, and the official handed her the Women’s World Championship. She took it with both hands, holding it high as the crowd roared her name.

And then she looked at you again.

The expression on her face was pure cocky satisfaction. Smug. The corner of her mouth curved in a way that made your stomach twist. She didn’t smile wide or play to the crowd the way she sometimes did after big wins. She just stood there with the title over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours across the distance, and the message was crystal clear: You did this. And now you’re going to deal with the consequences.

You didn’t stay in your seat long after that.

The second the match wrapped and the celebration started, you were moving, grabbing your jacket, shoving your phone into your bag, and slipping out of the section toward the nearest backstage access. Security knew you on sight and let you through without question. Your pulse was hammering. Part of you had convinced yourself that if you could get backstage before she made it to gorilla, maybe you could catch her while the win was still fresh, while the adrenaline was high and the edge of her jealousy hadn’t fully settled yet. Maybe she’d be a little softer. A little less irritated.

It was an incredibly stupid assumption.

You moved fast through the concrete hallways, the distant roar of the crowd still echoing behind you. Somewhere in the rush, maybe when you’d twisted to check over your shoulder or when you’d adjusted the strap of your bag, you lost the sign. It was gone. You didn’t even notice until you were already deep in the backstage area, breathing hard, heart still racing from the match and from the look she’d given you.

You stopped for half a second, glancing back down the hallway like the stupid little sign might magically reappear. It didn’t. And the realization hit you square in the chest as you kept walking toward the area where she’d be coming through after the match.

That plan had been ridiculous from the start.

Rhea wasn’t going to be softened by you beating her there. She wasn’t going to be distracted by the win or the title now resting on her shoulder. She was going to be exactly as pissed off as she’d looked in the ring, maybe more now that she had the time and space to really sit with what you’d done. The Liv shirt. The sign. Liv using it to poke at the rawest part of her history with Dom.

You kept moving anyway, because there was nowhere else to go. Your footsteps echoed on the concrete. Every few seconds you caught your own reflection in a dark window or a polished surface, the cropped shirt, the gear shorts, the faint flush still on your cheeks from the arena lights and the adrenaline.

She found you halfway down the hallway leading toward the women’s locker room.

You heard her before you saw her, the heavy, purposeful stride of someone who had just won a title and was still vibrating with leftover adrenaline and something much sharper. When you turned, she was already closing the distance, the Women’s World Championship slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Her eyes locked on you immediately, dark and unreadable except for the clear undercurrent of I want to kill you right now.

“Baby.”

The word came out low, almost calm, but the way she said it made your stomach clench. There was no warmth in it. Just that dangerous, possessive edge that always appeared when she was this worked up.

Before you could get a word out, her hand wrapped around your upper arm, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that there was no mistaking it for anything gentle. She started walking, pulling you along with her in that no-nonsense way that made your feet scramble to keep up.

“What the fuck was that?” she muttered under her breath as she steered you down the corridor, past a couple of crew members who wisely stepped aside. “In what world are you ever Liv’s girl? Wearing her shirt, holding that stupid fucking sign, letting her flirt with you on camera like that’s cute?”

You tried to slow down, dragging your feet just enough to make her feel it. “Mami—”

“Don’t ‘Mami’ me right now.” She kept moving, her grip shifting slightly so she could keep you close to her side while she vented. “You thought that was funny? After everything I said at lunch? After she brought up Dom and tried to use it against me again? You hand her the perfect fucking ammo and then stand there in the front row like you didn’t just hand her a loaded gun?”

Your breath came a little quicker, half from trying to match her pace and half from the way her voice dropped on every other word. You could feel the jealousy still radiating off her in waves, the same thing that had been burning through her during the entire match. It made your skin feel too warm under the cropped Liv shirt.

“Mami, it was just content,” you whined, voice breathy and a little bratty as you let your weight pull back against her hold. Your feet dragged across the concrete. “It was a trend. I didn’t think she’d actually—”

“Stop putting up a fight.”

The words landed like a command, low and stern and final. Something about the tone, the absolute authority in it, shot straight through you and settled low in your tummy, warm and fluttering and impossible to ignore. You felt your steps falter for a second, a soft, involuntary sound catching in your throat.

Rhea didn’t slow down. She just kept walking, pulling you the last stretch toward the locker room door with that same controlled intensity. The title belt bumped against her hip with every stride. Her fingers stayed wrapped around your arm, possessive and unyielding.

She didn’t even wait for the locker room door to fully close behind you.

The second you were inside, she turned, used the momentum of her grip on your arm to spin you, and slammed you back against the nearest row of lockers. The metal rattled hard under the impact, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet space. Your back hit the cool surface and she was already there, crowding into your space, one hand still banded around your arm while the other came up to grip your jaw.

Her eyes were dark, still riding the high of the win and the jealousy that had been burning through her since she spotted you in that shirt.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice low and rough as her hands started moving, grabbing your hips, yanking you forward so your body collided with hers, then pushing you back against the lockers again like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted you pinned or pressed flush to her. “I can just teach you where you belong. Remind you. Since you clearly couldn’t behave like a good girl tonight.”

Her palms dragged down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of her own gear shorts still sitting high on your thighs. She tugged, possessive and impatient, one hand sliding up under the hem of the cropped Liv shirt to grip your waist hard enough to leave the promise of marks.

“You had to push it,” she muttered, mouth close to your ear now, breath hot. “Couldn’t just sit there and watch your girl win like you were supposed to. Had to make it about her. I don’t mind teaching you, baby. I’ll make sure you remember exactly who the fuck you belong to.”

You squirmed against the lockers, breath coming quicker, the metal cold against your back while her body was all heat in front of you. “Mami—someone could walk in, this is the locker room—”

The little slap landed sharp on the side of your thigh, just enough sting to cut the protest off clean. Your breath hitched hard.

Before you could get another word out, she kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was devouring, hungry and rough and animalistic, like she was trying to consume every sound you might make. Her mouth claimed yours with teeth and tongue, one hand fisting in the fabric of the Liv shirt at your chest while the other slid down to grip your ass through the shorts, hauling you harder against her. She kissed like she was still pissed, like she needed to remind you with every press of her body and every bite at your lower lip that you were hers and hers alone. The title belt she’d been carrying clattered to the floor somewhere beside you, forgotten.

She didn’t pull back. If anything she pressed in closer, one thigh sliding between yours, hands roaming like she was mapping every inch she planned to reclaim. The kiss turned messier, deeper, her low growl vibrating against your mouth as she took exactly what she wanted.

You were pinned between the cold lockers and the burning heat of her, and she wasn’t letting up anytime soon.

She didn’t give you room to breathe.

The second her mouth left yours it was only to drag lower, teeth scraping along your jaw, then down the column of your throat in open, hungry bites that made your head tip back against the locker with a soft thud. She sucked hard at the spot just below your ear, pulling the skin between her lips until you knew there’d be a dark mark blooming there by morning. Her hands were everywhere at once: one gripping the back of your neck to hold you exactly where she wanted you, the other sliding under the hem of the cropped Liv shirt to palm your waist, fingers digging in like she could erase every trace of anyone else’s name from your skin.

“You’re mine,” she growled against your throat, voice rough and thick with leftover adrenaline and jealousy. She bit down again, harder this time, right over your pulse point, then soothed it with her tongue before moving to the other side. “Not hers. Not anyone’s. Mine. You don’t get to stand in the front row wearing her shit and holding her stupid little sign like that’s cute. Like you’re hers to flirt with.”

You tried to speak, breath catching as her mouth worked another mark into the tender skin above your collarbone. “Mami— it was just a trend, I didn’t think she’d—”

Her hand came up fast, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your head back farther. She kissed you again before you could finish, deep and consuming, tongue sliding against yours like she was trying to steal the words right out of your mouth. When she finally pulled back just enough to speak, her lips were still brushing yours, hot and swollen.

“Doesn’t matter what you thought,” she muttered, voice low and dangerous. She nipped at your bottom lip, then dragged her mouth down to suck another bruise into the side of your neck, right where it would be impossible to hide. “You pushed. Couldn’t just sit there and be good for me after everything I said at lunch. Had to make it about her. About Dom. Like I needed that reminder tonight.”

Her hands moved again, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, then sliding down to squeeze your ass through the shorts before hauling you forward so your body arched into hers. She pressed you back into the lockers with her full weight, one thigh wedged between yours, and went back to marking you. Open-mouthed kisses turned into bites that made your breath hitch every time. She worked her way along your throat, across your collarbones, even tugging the neckline of the shirt lower so she could leave a dark hickey just above the swell of your chest.

You tried again, voice coming out whiney and breathless as her teeth grazed a fresh spot. “Mami, someone’s gonna see all these—”

She shut you up with another kiss, this one slower but no less intense, like she was savoring the way you melted against her even while you were protesting. Her hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric before she gripped the shirt and pulled it higher, exposing more skin for her mouth to claim. Another mark bloomed under her lips, hot and stinging in the best way.

“Want them to see,” she said against your skin, voice muffled but clear enough. She sucked another bruise right over your heartbeat, then lifted her head just enough to look at you. Her eyes were dark, still burning with that possessive fire. “Want everyone to know exactly who you belong to. Especially after you let her call you her girl on camera. Especially after you wore her shirt like it meant something.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, something about it just being content, about not expecting Liv to actually engage, but she was already kissing you before the words could form. This time it was messier, hungrier, her tongue sliding deep as one hand fisted in your hair to keep you still. She kissed like she was starving for it, like every second her mouth wasn’t on you was too long. When she finally broke away it was only to drag her teeth along the shell of your ear.

“You’re not hers,” she repeated, low and fierce. “You’re mine. My girl. My spoiled little princess who knows better than to pull shit like this.” Another bite, this one on the curve of your shoulder where the shirt had slipped down. “And I’m gonna keep reminding you until it sinks in. Until you can’t look in the mirror without seeing who you belong to.”

Her hands kept moving, gripping, pulling, sliding under fabric to touch bare skin—while her mouth returned to yours in another long, devouring kiss that left you dizzy. Every time you managed a soft, breathy “Mami—” or tried to explain, she swallowed the words with her tongue and teeth, pressing you harder into the lockers like she could fuse you there. The jealousy still radiated off her in waves, but it was tangled now with something hotter, more primal. She marked you like she was claiming territory, dark bruises blooming across your neck, your chest, the tops of your breasts where she tugged the shirt down further.

You tried one more time, voice shaky and bratty as her mouth moved back to that sensitive spot below your ear. “You’re being— ah— mean, I didn’t mean for her to—”

She bit down in response, sharp enough to make your back arch, then soothed it with slow, deliberate sucks that you knew would leave the darkest mark yet. Her voice vibrated against your skin when she spoke again.

“Mean?” A low, rough laugh. “Baby, I haven’t even started.” Her hand slid down between your bodies, fingers hooking into the waistband of the shorts again as she kissed you hard enough to steal whatever else you might’ve said. “Gonna take my time with you tonight. Make sure you remember exactly who you are.”

She didn’t let up. Mouth, hands, teeth, voice, all of it working together to drown you in her claim while you could only manage broken little protests between kisses that never quite let you finish a thought. The locker room felt smaller with every passing minute, filled with the sound of her low, possessive words and the wet drag of her mouth against your marked skin.

She shifted her weight, pressing you harder into the lockers with her body as one thigh nudged yours wider apart. The movement was deliberate, purposeful, like something in her had snapped into pure need, the kind that demanded she prove it with more than just marks and words. Her mouth stayed on your neck, sucking another dark bruise into the skin she’d already claimed, while her free hand slid down between your bodies.

You felt the moment her fingers hooked into the waistband of the shorts again, this time pushing past the fabric without hesitation.

“Mami—baby, someone might see,” you whined, voice breathy and cracking as your hands came up to push weakly at her shoulders. The protest was half-hearted at best, your body already arching toward her touch even as you said it.

She didn’t even pause.

Her palm settled heavy and warm around the front of your throat, fingers resting there in a possessive collar that didn’t squeeze but made it very clear she was in control. The other hand slipped fully into the shorts, past the thin barrier of whatever you had underneath, and found you exactly as she’d expected. She let out a low, rough sound against your skin, half growl, half satisfied exhale, as her fingers dragged slowly through the slick heat there.

“Wet,” she muttered, voice dark and thick with satisfaction. She didn’t give you what you wanted. Not yet. Her fingers circled lazily, teasing around where you needed her most, spreading the evidence of how worked up she’d already gotten you with nothing but her mouth and hands and words. “So fucking wet for me already. Needy little thing. You stand there in her shirt, hold her sign, let her flirt with you on camera… and this is what it does to you?”

You tried again, hips twitching forward despite yourself. “Mami, the door—anyone could—”

She cut you off by pressing two fingers flat against you, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter but still refused to push inside. Her hand on your throat tightened just enough to tilt your head back against the metal, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes were black with it now, jealousy and victory and raw possession all tangled together.

“Let them,” she said simply, like the risk didn’t matter at all. Like the thought of someone walking in only made her want to stake her claim harder. “Let them see exactly who you belong to. Let them hear how wet you get when I remind you.”

Her fingers kept moving, slow, teasing strokes that dragged through your folds without giving you the pressure or depth you were already chasing. Every time your hips rolled forward, seeking more, she pulled back just enough to keep you on the edge of it. Another mark bloomed under her mouth on the other side of your throat, her teeth scraping before she sucked hard enough to make you gasp.

“Couldn’t behave like a good girl,” she continued, voice low and rough against your skin. Her fingers dipped lower, circling your entrance without pushing in, spreading the wetness she was so focused on. “Had to push. Had to make it about her. Now look at you. Dripping all over my hand in the fucking locker room because you need me to prove it.”

You managed a broken little sound, somewhere between a whine and her name, your fingers curling into the fabric of her gear top as your legs started to tremble. “Mami, please— you’re being—”

She kissed you again before you could finish, deep and consuming, swallowing whatever bratty protest you were trying to form. At the same time her fingers finally, finally, slid forward, pressing two of them inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust that made your back arch hard against the lockers. She didn’t move them right away. Just held them there, deep and still, while her thumb brushed lightly over your clit in the barest tease.

“So needy,” she murmured against your lips, the hand on your throat stroking once in a way that felt almost tender compared to everything else. “My spoiled princess. Getting fucked in the locker room because you couldn’t keep your little stunt to yourself. You feel that? How easy you open up for me? How wet you are just from me telling you who you belong to?”

She started to move then, slow, controlled thrusts of her fingers that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you without rushing toward anything. Her mouth returned to your neck, adding another mark right over the one she’d just left, while her thumb kept up that light, circling pressure that was just enough to drive you insane but nowhere near enough to finish it.

Every time you tried to speak, another soft, breathy “Mami—” or a half-formed protest about the risk, she either kissed you quiet or curled her fingers just right to steal the words. The hand on your throat stayed steady, anchoring you, while the other worked you open with deliberate, teasing strokes that made your thighs shake and your breath come in short, desperate little gasps.

She wasn’t in any hurry.

She didn’t ease up. If anything, the longer she had you pinned against the lockers, the meaner the edge in her voice got.

Her fingers stayed buried deep inside you, but now they curled on every slow thrust, dragging deliberately against that spot that made your knees threaten to give out. The hand around your throat tightened just enough to make your next breath come shorter, her thumb stroking once over your pulse like she was reminding herself it was hers to control.

“Look at you,” she muttered against the fresh bruise she’d just sucked into the side of your neck. Her tone was low, rough, almost mocking. “Standing there in her shirt like some little traitor, and now you’re dripping down my wrist because I’ve got my fingers in you. You’re pathetic for it, baby. So fucking wet and needy after everything you pulled tonight.”

You tried to answer, voice breaking on a gasp when she added a third finger without warning, stretching you fuller. “Mami—fuck, it’s too— someone’s gonna—”

She cut you off with a sharp bite to your collarbone, then soothed it with her tongue before lifting her head to look at you. Her eyes were dark, still burning with that possessive anger from the match.

“Someone’s gonna what?” she taunted, voice dripping with mean amusement. Her fingers started moving faster now, fucking into you with steady, punishing strokes that made the wet sound of it echo obscenely in the quiet locker room. “Gonna walk in and see Rhea’s girl getting finger-fucked against the lockers like the desperate little thing she is? Good. Let them see. Let them hear how you sound when you’re getting reminded who owns this pussy.”

Her thumb finally pressed harder against your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk forward, chasing it. But she didn’t give you steady friction for long. She eased off again, keeping you right on that edge while her fingers slowed to deep, grinding thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you.

“You thought you were being cute with that little stunt,” she continued, mouth brushing your ear now. “Wearing her colors. Holding that sign. Letting her call you her girl on camera like I wouldn’t notice. Like it wouldn’t piss me off after everything she took from me.” Her fingers twisted on the next thrust, and she laughed low when your walls fluttered around them. “Look how wet that made you. You like it when I get like this, don’t you? When I have to prove it. When I have to fuck the reminder into you so you don’t forget again.”

You whined, high and breathy, fingers clutching at her shoulders as you tried to rock down onto her hand. “Mami, please— I’m sorry, I just—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it tonight,” she growled, biting down on your earlobe hard enough to sting. Her hand on your throat slid up to grip your jaw instead, forcing you to meet her eyes while she fucked you harder against the lockers. The metal rattled with every thrust of her fingers. “You’re gonna come on my hand like this, in this fucking locker room, because that’s what you get for pushing me. And then I’m taking you back to the hotel and doing it again. Slower. Meaner. Until you can’t walk without feeling me.”

She curled her fingers again, pressing right where you needed it, and her thumb finally gave you consistent pressure on your clit. But even then she kept it just shy of what would push you over, teasing, controlling, making you work for every bit of it.

“Say it,” she demanded, voice rough. “Tell me who you belong to while I’ve got you like this. Or I stop.”

Her fingers slowed to a torturous grind, barely moving, and she watched your face with that same cocky, possessive smirk she’d worn after winning the title. The one that said she knew exactly how close you were and wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Say it, baby. Or I’ll keep you right here, dripping and desperate, until someone really does walk in and see what a needy little mess my girl is.”

She slowed her fingers to a torturous grind, barely moving inside you, her thumb lifting off your clit completely. The sudden lack of friction made your hips jerk forward on instinct, chasing what she’d just taken away.

“Say it,” she ordered, voice low and rough against your ear. Her hand stayed firm around your jaw, keeping your face tilted up toward hers. “Who the fuck do you belong to?”

You hesitated, breath coming in short, shaky pants. Your walls fluttered around her fingers anyway, body betraying you even as your mind scrambled. A few long seconds passed, her fingers staying cruelly still, her eyes locked on yours, waiting.

Finally, it slipped out, soft and breathless.

“Yours… I belong to you, Mami.”

The second the words left your mouth, her expression shifted into something darker and more satisfied. “Good girl,” she murmured, but there was still that mean edge to it. “Now you’re gonna work for it.”

She didn’t give it to you easy.

Her fingers started moving again, but slower than before, deep, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot without giving you the rhythm you needed. Her thumb returned to your clit, but only in light, teasing circles that had you rocking your hips down desperately, trying to chase more pressure, more speed. Every time you got close to that edge, she eased off again, forcing you to grind down onto her hand like you were the one doing the work.

“That’s it,” she taunted, watching your face with dark amusement. “Work for it. Show me how bad you need to come after that little stunt you pulled. Ride my fingers like the needy thing you are.”

You were shaking now, thighs trembling, one hand fisted in the front of her top while the other gripped her wrist like you could make her move faster. Your hips rolled in messy, desperate circles, fucking yourself on her fingers as best you could while she kept just enough control to drag it out. Every time a broken little moan slipped out of you, she answered with another low, possessive comment.

“Look at you. So desperate to come on my hand in the middle of the fucking locker room. After wearing her shirt. After letting her call you her girl.” Her fingers curled hard on the next thrust, and she finally gave your clit the steady pressure you’d been chasing. “Come on then. Since you said it so pretty. Come for me.”

It hit you hard.

Your orgasm crashed through you in a rush of heat and clenching muscle, your walls pulsing tight around her fingers as your hips jerked uncontrollably. A broken sound tore out of your throat, half her name, half a sob, and she kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until your legs were shaking too hard to hold you up properly.

Only then did she slow down.

Her fingers gentled inside you, stroking slowly through the aftershocks as your body trembled against the lockers. The hand on your jaw loosened, sliding down to rest at the side of your neck instead, still possessive, but no longer forcing your head back. She leaned in and pressed a slower, almost gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the fresh mark she’d left on your throat.

For a few long moments, she just let you breathe.

Your chest heaved against hers, legs unsteady, the cool metal of the locker at your back the only thing keeping you upright. She stayed close, fingers still buried inside you but no longer moving, her forehead resting against yours while she gave you space to come down. The only sounds in the locker room were your ragged breathing and the distant, muffled noise of the arena still winding down outside.

She didn’t pull away yet.

But she let you breathe.

She didn’t give you more than a few shaky breaths.

Before your legs had even stopped trembling, Rhea pulled her fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, and stepped back. The sudden loss of her body heat and the support of her hands left you sagging harder against the lockers, one palm braced on the cool metal while the other clutched at your own thigh like that might steady you. Your breath came in short, ragged pulls, chest heaving, the fresh marks on your neck and chest throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

She didn’t say anything at first.

She just watched you for a moment, eyes dark, that same arrogant, cocky smirk she’d worn after winning the title curving her mouth. Then she turned and crossed the few steps to the nearest bench. She sat down with casual ease, legs spreading wide, the championship belt resting on the bench beside her like an afterthought. The arrogant tilt of her head said everything: she knew exactly how wrecked you were, and she was enjoying every second of it.

Her gaze dragged over you slowly, taking in the way your legs still shook, the way you were struggling to push yourself upright properly, the dark bruises blooming across your throat and chest where her mouth had been.

Then she patted the space between her spread thighs.

“Come here.”

Your stomach flipped at the command. You tried to straighten up, pushing off the locker with shaky arms, but your knees buckled almost immediately. The orgasm had hit too hard, left you too loose and unsteady. You took one wobbling step forward, then another, but your legs wouldn’t cooperate. The floor felt uneven beneath your feet.

You ended up sinking down instead, first to your knees, then catching yourself on your hands as another tremor ran through you. The concrete was cold and rough under your palms, but you kept moving, crawling the short distance across the floor toward her because walking wasn’t happening. Not yet. Not after the way she’d just pulled you apart against the lockers.

Rhea didn’t move to help you.

She just watched, that smug little smirk deepening as you made your way over on hands and knees. Her eyes tracked every unsteady shift of your body, every time your arms shook or your breath hitched. When you finally reached her, she didn’t say anything right away. She just let you kneel there between her spread legs for a beat, looking down at you with dark satisfaction.

One of her hands came down to rest on the back of your neck, gentle for once, but still possessive, as she guided you in closer.

“That’s it,” she murmured, voice low and rough. “Crawl to me like the good girl you’re supposed to be.”

Her thumb stroked once over the side of your throat, right over one of the marks she’d left, while she waited to see what you would do now that you were exactly where she wanted you.

She didn’t leave you kneeling there for long.

Her hands came down to your shoulders, firm and guiding as she pulled you backward until your back was flush against her front. She kept her legs spread wide on either side of you, thighs bracketing your body like a cage, the solid muscle of them pressing in against your hips and ribs. One of her arms slid around your waist, holding you there, while the other rested heavy on your shoulder, keeping you exactly where she wanted you, back to her, trapped between her legs, unable to see her face unless you turned your head.

You were still shaky from the orgasm, legs weak, breathing uneven. The position made it worse. You could feel the heat of her body all along your spine, the steady rise and fall of her chest against your back, the way her thighs flexed slightly every time you shifted.

Rhea let the silence stretch for a few seconds, just long enough for you to feel how completely she had you boxed in. Then she spoke, voice low and rough right by your ear.

“Look at you,” she murmured, the words dripping with that same arrogant satisfaction. “Came so hard you can’t even stand up straight, and now you’re right back where you belong—on your knees between my legs.” Her hand on your shoulder slid down, fingers tracing over one of the fresh marks on your throat. “You really thought you could pull that little stunt and get away with it? Wearing her shirt. Letting her flirt with you like that. Now you’re shaking in my lap because you can’t even walk after I fucked you against the lockers.”

You tried to say something, some half-formed protest or whine, but she didn’t give you the chance.

Her hand moved lower, slipping straight back into the waistband of the shorts without any warning or teasing this time. Two fingers pushed into you again in one smooth, deliberate thrust, and the sudden stretch made your whole body jolt. You were still sensitive, still wet from before, and the feeling of her filling you again so soon had your breath catching hard.

She didn’t start slow.

Her fingers curled immediately, fucking into you with steady, purposeful strokes while her other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you back against her. The position meant you couldn’t do much but take it, caged by her legs, back pressed to her chest, every thrust of her fingers making your body rock forward slightly only for her to pull you right back into place.

“That’s it,” she said against your ear, voice mean and low. “Take it. You wanted to play games tonight? This is what you get. Me reminding you exactly who this belongs to.” Her thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that made your thighs tremble between hers. “Still so fucking wet. Still so needy. You’re gonna come again for me like this—back to me, trapped between my legs, because that’s where you belong.”

She kept talking, voice rough and possessive as her fingers worked you harder, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room. Every time your breath hitched or a broken little sound slipped out, she answered with another low comment about how easy you were for her, how you’d crawled to her, how she was going to keep you like this until you couldn’t think about anything except who you belonged to.

She felt it the second your head started to tip back.

Your neck arched, head falling against her shoulder as another broken sound slipped out of you. The position left you completely open to her, throat exposed, body trembling between her thighs while her fingers kept fucking into you with those deep, relentless strokes. Rhea made a low, satisfied sound, almost a growl, right against your ear. She loved it. Loved how easily you gave in, how your body went pliant and desperate against hers.

One of her arms shifted.

She moved it up and around, sliding her bicep against the front of your throat in a firm, controlling hold. Not enough to cut off your air completely, but enough to make every breath feel claimed. Her forearm pressed in, bicep flexing against your windpipe as she locked you there, head tipped back against her, throat caged by her arm while her other hand stayed buried between your legs, fingers curling and thrusting without mercy.

“That’s it,” she rasped, voice rough and mean. “Fall back on me. Let me hold you like this while I fuck you.” Her bicep flexed again, just enough pressure to make your next breath come shorter. Her fingers inside you picked up speed, thumb grinding hard against your clit now, pushing you right up to that edge again with ruthless precision.

You were shaking hard between her legs, one hand gripping her thigh, the other clutching at the arm around your throat. Every thrust of her fingers made your body jolt, and every time you tried to rock your hips she just held you tighter, controlling the pace completely.

She kept you right there, right on the brink, until your walls started fluttering hard around her fingers and your breathing turned into desperate little gasps against her bicep.

Then she stopped moving her hand.

Her fingers stayed buried deep inside you, completely still, while her arm stayed locked around your throat. She pressed her lips to the shell of your ear, voice low and dark. “Who owns this fucking pussy huh?”

“Say it,” she ordered. “Or you don’t get to cum.”