The pew is hard beneath me, a rigid, unforgiving plank that feels like their judgment. Mom’s whisper still hisses in my ear, a venomous little echo from the parking lot. That dress is too revealing, Lia. Have some respect for the house of God. As if this modest sundress, the one that covers everything from my collarbones to my knees, is some kind of whore’s uniform. They see sin in my shadow.

The pastor’s voice drones on, a low hum of hypocrisy. I can feel their eyes on me from either side, my personal wardens. They have no idea. They don’t know about the motel rooms that smell of stale smoke and cheap cleaner, or about the way the cold porcelain of the school bathroom sink felt against my back just yesterday. Their holier-than-thou sermons built these walls, and my body is the battering ram I use to smash them down.

A perfect, quiet plan clicks into place. “I have to use the restroom,” I murmur, my voice a picture of innocence.

The hallway is silent, hollow. My flats make no sound on the polished tile. Inside the single-stall bathroom, the lock clicks with a finality that sends a thrill straight through me. This is my sanctuary now.

I don’t even bother with the pretense. I hike my dress up around my waist, pull my panties down, and sit on the cool toilet seat. The air is chill against my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat building low in my belly. I pull my phone from my purse, the screen blazing to life in the dim light.

My gallery is a secret altar. I scroll past photos of my boyfriend Jake—his warm, smiling face, his gentle hands holding mine at the county fair. He sees something pure in me, something worth protecting. But Sione, his friend, and my sin… Sione sees what’s underneath.

A new message lights up the screen. Not from Jake. From him.

Sione: Still in church, little saint? Show me what you’re hiding under that dress.

My breath catches. Jake’s voice is always soft, full of care—You’re beautiful, Lia. You don’t have to prove anything. But Sione’s words are a command. They strip me bare before I even move.

A wicked smile touches my lips. My fingers are slick as I type back. Want to see me finger myself? Right here, right now?

His response is instantaneous. Do it. Let me see how wet you get when you sin.

I switch to video, steadying the phone against the stall door. The small record light glows like a demon’s eye. I can hear the muffled rise and fall of the hymn outside, the collective voice of the faithful. It fuels me. I press my lips together to stifle a moan as I push two fingers inside myself, the sound wet and obscenely loud in the tiny space. The camera captures it all—the focused look on my face, the way my small body trembles, the sinful, slick movement of my hand. I feel so exposed, so utterly seen—not loved like Jake sees me, but known, in all my shame and hunger.

The orgasm is a quick, violent shock, a tremor that races out from my core and leaves my thighs shaking. I gasp, biting down on my own knuckle to stay silent. For a final, glorious act of defiance, I pull my glistening fingers out and use them to spread my lips apart for the camera, showing him the slick, messy proof of my sin. For you, I type and hit send.

I don’t wait for his reply. I stand on unsteady legs, flush the toilet to mask any sound, and wash my hands clean under the cold water. The scent of my own arousal still clung to me, a secret perfume beneath the soap.

Back in the pew, the sermon is still going. I fold my hands in my lap, the picture of devotion. But inside, I am alive. The memory of what I just did—the exposure, the risk, the pure, carnal joy of it—coursed through me like a drug. Let them preach about fire and brimstone. I am the one who is truly burning.

***

After a few days, as I walked home from Sione's place, the walk felt like a penance. A fifteen-minute stretch of cracked pavement and overgrown ditches that felt longer every time. This was the West Coast farmland version of nowhere—flat fields sleeping under a vast, star-dusted sky, punctuated by the occasional lonely house, its windows glowing like watchful eyes.

I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every weed that sprouted through it. Tonight, though, my skin still hummed from Sione’s rough hands, my mouth still tasted like his cheap beer. An hour ago, I was pressed against his truck in the empty lot behind the old feed store, my sundress shoved up around my waist while he bit my neck and told me what a dirty little liar I was. I loved it. I hated it.

And Jake… Jake texted me not thirty minutes ago. Hope you had a good night with the girls. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. You’re my whole world, Lia. My stomach twisted. He thinks I’m at a movie with Jessica and her friends. He trusts me. He loves some version of me that only exists when I’m with him—soft, innocent, untouched.

Now, it was the literal walk of shame. My head was bowed, my eyes tracing the scuff marks on my shoes. Don’t look up. Don’t let them see. Every lit window was a potential witness. Did the Johnsons see my hurried pace? Could the Millers, through their sheer curtains, spot the way my hair was mussed, the strap of my dress slipped off one shoulder? Was the smell of Sione’s cologne and my own shame still clinging to my skin? My breathing was shallow, ragged, and I’d break into a hurried, half-jog whenever I passed directly in front of a house, my heart hammering against my ribs.

When a pair of headlights approached or I saw a shadowy figure walking a dog in the distance, my hand would clutch the strap of my backpack like a rosary, my gaze locking onto the gravel at the road’s edge. I was an exposed nerve, raw and guilty, convinced my sin was a beacon shining from my very soul.

Then came the middle-way mark. The Henderson house.

It was always the same. The bright, unforgiving white light of their open garage door flooded the street, a sterile, surgical glare that obliterated the night’s comforting shadows. Inside, a motorcycle and two cars were crammed together like sleeping beasts. Tonight, the door of an old sedan was open, and a large, familiar shape was leaning into the passenger side, rummaging around.

I picked up my pace, my shoulders tensing, praying to be just another shadow flitting past his property line. I was almost clear, the darkness at the edge of his lawn just a step away, when his voice rumbled out, cutting through the silent night.

“Lia?”

I froze.

“Quite late today? Aren’t your parents worried?” Mr. Henderson said, straightening up and turning toward me. He wiped his hands on an already-greasy rag.

I stopped and turned slowly, my eyes still fixed on the oil-stained concrete of his driveway. The light felt like an interrogation lamp. “I… yeah,” I stammered, the lie forming on my tongue, tasting like ash. “I was out with Jessica. And the others.”

He pondered this, a big, bald man in his late forties with strong features buried under a layer of hard living. His burly body, all pot belly and thick arms, was clad in stained work clothes. “Huh,” he grunted. “My Jessica got back with her friends hours ago. Said they all went to see that new superhero movie at the Cineplex. She’s upstairs asleep right now.”

My blood ran cold. Shit. Jessica knows Jake. She’s friends with his sister. If she ever found out… if she even suspected…

“I meant… after,” I stuttered, my face burning. “We went for milkshakes after. At the diner.” The words sounded weak even to me. The diner closed at ten. It was nearly midnight.

Mr. Henderson looked at me for a long moment, his gaze seeming to see right through my thin sundress, through my skin, to the sticky evidence drying on my thighs. He didn’t press it. He just sighed, a sound of weary paternal concern. “Alright. Well, you be careful on your way home, kiddo. It’s dark out.”

I nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and finally dared to meet his eyes for a split second. I saw no accusation there, just a dull curiosity, and that was somehow worse. I mumbled a “goodnight” and practically fled, pushing back into the welcome darkness.

But his words followed me. Quite late today? The question echoed in my head, now mingled with the memory of Sione’s greedy hands and Jake’s trusting text. Each step felt heavier. I was sure of it now—my guilt wasn’t just a feeling. It was a visible stain, a scent, a shift in the air around me. Mr. Henderson hadn’t seen a girl coming home from a movie. He’d seen a sinner slinking back to her cage, and his quiet relenting was the most damning judgment of all. Jake offered me safety, but it felt like a cage. Sione offered me danger, and it felt like flying. God offered me forgiveness, but He was the one who made me this hungry. The blame was a fire in my chest, and I didn’t know who to burn first.

It became a ritual, a strange, nightly sacrament under the fluorescent glare of his garage. Time after time, late-night walk after late-night walk, he was there. At first, I told myself it was a coincidence—a man tinkering with his cars, losing track of time. But as the weeks bled into months, the pattern felt intentional. He was always there, a silent sentinel in the heart of my walk of shame.

He never directly asked the questions that hung in the air between us. Where have you been? Who were you with? He seemed to understand, instinctively, that I was like a small, timid bird; a sudden move, a direct question, and I’d startle, my lies would become frantic, and I’d skitter away into the safety of the dark.

Instead, he was affable. He’d ask about my day, about school, and if I’d enjoyed my time out. His voice, a low rumble that contrasted with his greasy, burly appearance, became a familiar comfort. Slowly, almost without realizing it, I began to look forward to these small, stolen moments. The nights when the garage door was down, the lights off, and the driveway empty, I found my steps slowing, a faint pang of disappointment making the walk home feel longer and lonelier. I’d find myself hoping to hear the electric hum of the door lifting, for that booming voice to call out, “Lia? Late again.”

The nights I didn’t go out, I’d lie in bed and wonder if he was out there, waiting in the silence, wondering about me. Our dynamic became a quiet, unspoken game of cat and mouse. And on the nights our paths aligned, the sharp edge of my shame was blunted, transforming into something else entirely—a low, simmering tease.

As spring deepened, the nights grew warmer, heavy with the scent of cut grass and distant earth. I started to use the cover of darkness not just for concealment, but for liberation. After leaving Sione, I’d peel off the clothes that felt like costumes, stuffing them into my backpack. I’d walk home in just shorts and a thin, sleeveless shirt, sometimes forgoing a bra altogether, letting the cool night air dry the sweat from my skin and refresh the places he had touched.

A flashback hit me then, sharp and visceral: Sione’s living room couch just hours earlier, the TV murmuring some sports game upstairs where his parents slept. His hand clamped over my mouth, his other hand working between my legs with a rough, knowing rhythm. “Quiet, church girl,” he’d grunted into my ear, his breath hot. “Let’s see how loud you get when you’re trying not to scream.” It was nothing like with Jake. Jake made love in the gentle dark of his bedroom, whispering how beautiful I was, treating my body like something holy. Sione treated it like a toy he’d found and couldn’t wait to break.

This new audacity made my encounters with Mr. Henderson crackle with a different energy. I began to notice it—the way his eyes would move over me, not with the leering hunger of other men, but with a slower, more deliberate appreciation. It was a visual caress, tracing the line of my bare arm, the shape of my small breasts visible under the thin cotton, the length of my legs in the short shorts. He never lingered too long, never said anything inappropriate, but the look was enough.

One night, he was changing the oil, his hands black with grime. I’d just come from Sione’s truck, my lips still swollen from kissing, the ghost of his grip still on my hips. I stood at the edge of the light, feeling bold, feeling ruined.

“Long night?” Mr. Henderson asked, not looking up from the engine.

“Something like that,” I said, my voice a little husky.

He straightened up then, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes didn’t go to my face. They traveled down, slowly, taking in the sight of me—the rumpled shirt, the shorts that were maybe too short, the general aura of a girl who was no longer trying to hide what she’d been doing. There was no paternal concern in his gaze anymore. It was something darker, more knowing. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He saw it. He saw the sinful slut, not the innocent girl.

“Better get on home, then,” he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

It was infuriating. I’d just come from Sione, my body still humming from the raw, physical act, my senses saturated. I should have been sated, numb. But the throb would start again, low and insistent, as soon as I saw that garage light. It was an endless, blooming hunger, a fire I kept thinking I’d extinguished only to find it smoldering still, waiting for the next breath of oxygen. His quiet, watchful presence—seeing me, really seeing me—was becoming the most potent fuel of all. God and Jake offered me purity, and it felt like a cage. Sione and Mr. Henderson offered me the truth of what I was, and it felt like freedom.

The flirtation was a slow, insidious poison, a sacrament of sacrilege. It started with comparisons that felt like confessions. “You and my Jessica,” he’d say one night, leaning against his car door, a greasy rag in his hand. “You’re both such beautiful creatures of God. Makes an old man remember what it was to be young.” The words were draped in paternal warmth, but his eyes, when they flicked to me, held a heat that was anything but fatherly. He was a fisherman, and I was the skittish fish he was patiently coaxing toward his net, casting a line baited with approval and a twisted form of absolution.

I felt it—the slow, inevitable pull. The bright white light of his garage was no longer just light; it was the glow of heaven’s own temptation, and he was the serpent waiting in its warmth. I was the prey, circling closer and closer to the predator’s maw, mesmerized by my own reflection in its eyes.

Then came a particularly blistering afternoon. I was walking home from school, the sun a merciless weight on my shoulders. My sleeveless shirt was stuck to my skin, stained with sweat. I saw him before I reached the house, not in the garage but standing in the sliver of shade it cast, drinking from a bottle of water.

“Lia,” he called, his voice a low, friendly rumble. “Looks like you could use this more than me.” He gestured with the bottle.

I stopped at the very edge of the property line, the asphalt burning through the soles of my shoes. The sun scorched my skin, but stepping into that shaded garage felt like a far greater danger. I knew, with a primal certainty, what would happen if I crossed that threshold.

He smiled, an affable, kind smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Come on now, it’s just water. Don’t want you passing out in this heat.” He took a step back, inviting me in. The offer was a guise, a coaxing hand. I saw the parallel instantly—the forbidden fruit, cool and promising relief, offered by a smiling tempter.

My throat was parched. My will was weak. With a shuddering breath, I took the step, surrendering to the sin. The shade was instant, a relief that felt like a condemnation.

I took the bottle from him and drank greedily, the water cold and perfect. I could see the sweat staining his tank top, the fabric clinging to his burly, pot-bellied frame. His shorts were stained with grease. He watched me, his smile unwavering.

“Jessica and the wife are out getting groceries,” he said casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Won’t be back for a while.”

The bottle felt suddenly heavy in my hand. The air in the garage thickened, growing still and hot. Then his voice changed, the paternal warmth evaporating, replaced by a cold, knowing edge.

“I know what you do, Lia,” he said, his voice low. “I see you walking home late. I see the look in your eyes. I know that walk.”

Before I could move, before I could even form a denial, he reached up and hit the button. The garage door began its slow, groaning descent, cutting us off from the world, sealing us in our private chapel of shame. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. But alongside the fear, a treacherous, familiar heat began to uncoil in my belly. I was afraid, and I was utterly, shamefully aroused.

He took a step closer. “That sweet little cross necklace,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the silver pendant resting on my sweaty collarbone. “That innocent face. But I know what lurks underneath, don’t I? I see it in the way you and Jessica dress. I know girls your age. I know the hunger.”

His voice was a hypnotic drone of blame and desire. “You entice, Lia. You seduce. A man of God tries to resist, but he’s only human. You force his hand.”

He undid his belt with a sharp, metallic rasp. The sound was final. “Kneel,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

My legs gave way. I knelt on the rough, oil-spotted concrete, the grit immediately biting into my bare knees. The pain was sharp, clarifying. This was my penance. I thought of kneeling in church, hands folded, head bowed, for a God who felt a million miles away. This was a different kind of prayer. A dirtier one.

He freed himself, thick and already hard. He didn’t guide me; he looked down at me, a sinner at his altar. “You know what to do,” he said, his voice thick with a false regret. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been asking for.”

I leaned forward, my eyes squeezed shut. The act was familiar, but the context was new, darker. He groaned as I took him into my mouth, his hands tangling in my short, damp hair. He continued his monologue, a filthy prayer spoken over me.

“Such a pretty little mouth… for such a sinful girl… forcing a good man to stumble… oh God, yes…”

His hips began to move, his thrusts growing more frantic. I was an object, a vessel for his release and his self-loathing. The taste of him, musky and sour, filled my senses. The sounds I made were obscene—wet, gagging, desperate noises that were nothing like the quiet, reverent sighs Jake drew from me. With Jake, sex was a hushed, pious thing. With Sione, it was loud, brutal, and perfect. But this… this was a desecration. And I was a willing participant.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grunted, his voice straining. “Don’t you dare spill a drop. You’ll take it. You’ll swallow every bit of your sin.”

He held my head firmly, pushing himself deep as he climaxed. The bitter, salty flood hit the back of my throat. I choked, tears springing to my eyes, but I obeyed, swallowing convulsively, consuming the physical proof of our mutual damnation. It was my communion: the body and the blood.

He finally released me, stepping back with a shuddering sigh. I stayed on my knees, sputtering, the taste of him and the scrape of the concrete my only reality. He looked down at me, zipping himself up, his expression a mix of satisfaction and pious disgust.

“Now,” he said, his voice returning to its usual rumble. “You should get home before your parents worry.”

He hit the button. The garage door groaned open again, flooding the space with the accusing light of the outside world. I rose on trembling legs, my knees stinging and raw. I didn’t look back. I just walked, the taste of him still on my tongue, a permanent stain on my soul. I had knelt for God my whole life and felt nothing. I knelt for a depraved man in a greasy garage and found my religion.