The taste of him was a ghost in my mouth.

I woke with a start, the phantom sensation of salt and sin clinging to my palate. Morning light, clean and accusatory, streamed through my window. I bolted from bed, not to my closet for school clothes, but to the bathroom sink. I scrubbed my teeth until the minty foam turned pink, my gums screaming in protest. But it was no use. I could still feel it—the bitter tang of his finish, the gritty memory of concrete on my knees, the weight of his hand on my head. It felt less like a memory and more like a stain that had seeped through my skin, settling deep in my bones.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, my eyes wide and shadowed. My silver cross necklace lay against my collarbone. I used to find comfort in its cool weight. Now it felt like a brand, a mark of hypocrisy I was forced to wear. Pure. Holy. Righteous. The words were a mockery. I was none of those things. I was the girl who knelt on a greasy garage floor for her friend’s father.

A violent shudder wracked my body. What have I done?

I had promised myself, after the first time I cheated, that Jake would be different. Jake was my fresh start. He was good and kind, and he looked at me like I was something holy. He held my face in his hands and told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And I had wanted to be that girl for him. I had wanted to be a good girlfriend.

But now… I had done it again. I had woven myself into a situation that scared me but also, God help me, aroused me. The memory of Sione’s hands on me in the school’s empty equipment room—his palm pressed over my mouth to muffle my cries, his other hand leaving bruises on my hips—flashed behind my eyes. I had been so loud with him. With Jake, I was always quiet, reverent, like we were doing something sacred. With Sione, it felt like we were tearing down a church.

And now Mr. Henderson. I had broken my one rule. My sacred pact. Only strangers. Only men who lived far enough away that their worlds would never, ever touch mine. Men who didn’t know my name, my family, my church. Men who were just faces and hands and grunts in the dark, who would vanish into the digital ether afterward, leaving no trace behind.

I had broken the rule. And not just with anyone.

With Mr. Henderson. Who lived fifteen minutes away. Who sat in the same pew every Sunday. Who was married to a woman who brought casseroles to church potlucks. Who was the father of Jessica Henderson, a girl I’d known since third grade.

The magnitude of my mistake crashed over me, a cold, suffocating wave. This wasn’t a secret I could bury in the anonymous confines of a motel room. This was a live wire, snaking through the heart of my small town, connected directly to my family, my school, my entire life.

Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in my throat. What if someone had seen me go into the garage? What if a neighbor’s curtain had twitched? What if Jessica found out? The thought made me want to vomit. The image of Jessica’s bright, trusting face contorted in betrayal and disgust was more terrifying than any sermon about hell.

I was trapped. Every creak of the house floorboards sounded like the groaning descent of his garage door. My mother’s call from the kitchen—"Lia, breakfast!"—sounded like his low, rumbling voice. I was hyper-aware of every sound, every look, convinced my sin was a visible aura around me, a stench of guilt everyone could smell.

There was something deeply, fundamentally wrong with me. Jake offered me love, and I craved degradation. God offered me grace, and I spat in His face. I had let the predator into the heart of my world, and now I was waiting, paralyzed, for the jaws to snap shut on everything I knew. He made me this way, I thought, a bitter fire igniting in my chest. He made me hungry and then gave me nothing but rules. This is His fault—all of it.

***

The wooden pew was hard and unyielding against my knees, a familiar discomfort that usually centered me. Today, it was a trigger. As I knelt, my head bowed during the Sunday morning service, the polished oak beneath me transformed. In my mind’s eye, it wasn't the smooth, varnished surface of the church pew; it was the rough, oil-stained concrete of Mr. Henderson’s garage, biting cruelly into my skin.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. The choir’s hymn swelled around me, a soaring, holy sound that suddenly seemed to warp, twisting into the low, ragged groan that had escaped his lips. The scent of incense and old books was violently replaced by the memory of gasoline, sweat, and something uniquely, intimately his.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to anchor myself in the prayer, in the ritual. Our Father, who art in heaven…

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a vivid and brutal flashback hijacked my senses.

The groan of the garage door closing, sealing me in. The fluorescent light, blinding and surgical, exposed me completely. The feel of my shorts against my thighs as I lowered myself onto the unforgiving floor, grit immediately embedding itself in my skin. The look in his eyes—not lust, but a kind of pious ownership—as he loomed over me.

“You know what to do,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the concrete and into my bones. It wasn’t a question.

My hands, clasped tightly in prayer, trembled. I could feel the phantom pressure of his hand on the back of my head, not forcing, but guiding with an awful certainty. The taste—God, the taste—flooded my mouth again, a bitter ghost that made my stomach clench.

Hallowed be thy name…

The prayer was a desperate plea now. Please, make it stop. Erase this. Make me clean.

But the memory was stronger. I could feel the heat of his body, see the stained fabric of his work shorts, hear the sharp, metallic rasp of his zipper. Here, in this holy place, surrounded by my family and neighbors, I was reliving the most profane moment of my life. The two realities—kneeling in church, kneeling for him—collided, and I was the hypocrite at the center of the explosion.

A soft sob caught in my throat, strangled into silence. I opened my eyes, blurry with unshed tears, and my gaze instinctively shot forward.

A few pews ahead, Mr. Henderson was also kneeling. His broad back was to me, the picture of devotion. He seemed massive and solid, a pillar of the community at prayer. The sheer normality of him, here in God’s house, after what he had done, after what I had done, made me feel dizzy, dissociated.

He finished his prayer, crossed himself with a practiced motion, and began to rise. As he settled back into the pew, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to find mine.

The glance lasted less than a second. But in it, I saw it all. A flicker of recognition, a silent reminder of the power he held, a shared secret that polluted the sanctified air between us. It wasn't a look of lust or affection. It was the look of a man who knew he owned a piece of my soul.

I quickly looked down, my face burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight. I couldn’t bring myself to rise. I stayed on my knees, trapped between the altar of God and the memory of a different, darker worship, praying for a forgiveness I knew I no longer deserved.

After the service, the crowd spilled out into the bright, sunny courtyard. Jake’s hand found mine, his fingers lacing through my own. His touch was warm, solid, safe. It felt like a lie.

“Hey, you okay?” he murmured, his voice full of that gentle concern that used to make me feel cherished. Now it felt like a spotlight. “You seemed really quiet in there.”

“Just… praying hard,” I managed, my voice thin.

That’s when I saw them. Jessica, beaming, waved us over. And beside her, Mr. Henderson, laughing with another deacon, looking for all the world like a man without a single secret.

My feet felt rooted to the spot, but Jake, sweet, oblivious Jake, pulled me gently forward. “Hey, Jess! Mr. H.”

“Jake! Lia!” Jessica chirped, bouncing on her heels. “We were just talking about maybe getting a group together later to see that new movie. You guys in?”

My throat closed. I could feel Mr. Henderson’s gaze slide over to me, casual, almost bored. I stared at a crack in the pavement, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape.

“Ah, sorry Jess,” Jake said, squeezing my hand. “Can’t. I’ve got a date planned with this one.” He smiled down at me, so full of love it was a physical pain. “Gonna take her for a drive, maybe watch the sunset.”

Mr. Henderson chuckled, a low, familiar rumble that went straight through me. “A drive, huh? You kids be careful.” His eyes met mine again, just for a fraction of a second. “Don’t stay out too late. And remember,” he added, his tone light, joking, but his eyes were anything but, “God is always watching.”

The words were a brand. I felt my whole body flush hot, then cold. Jake just laughed, completely missing the double meaning, the threat laced beneath the folksy advice.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Jake said, grinning. “We’ll be good.”

No, I thought, my insides twisting into a knot of guilt and fear and a terrible, shameful thrill. We won’t. I never am.

I sat crammed in the back of Jake's tiny hatchback, the seatbelts digging into my hips like judgmental fingers, the farm field's earthy scent seeping through the cracked windows. We'd parked here after our date, the sun dipping low, casting golden streaks over the cornstalks that swayed like silent witnesses to our fumbling. Jake's lips moved against mine in that slow, deliberate way of his—almost reverent, like he was savoring a prayer rather than devouring me. His hands cupped my breasts over my shirt, squeezing gently, thumbs circling my hardening nipples through the fabric. But after nearly thirty minutes of this, our clothes remained stubbornly on, and my pussy throbbed with a desperate ache, slick heat pooling between my thighs, soaking through my panties, and probably staining my dress.

I moaned into his mouth, arching my back to press closer, wishing he'd slide his fingers down, under my waistband, and plunge into me. God, why couldn't he finger me already? My mind flashed to Sione—Jake's burly rugby teammate, with his thick Samoan build and relentless hunger. Sione didn't tease; he violated. He'd shove his fingers into my pussy while his thumb assaulted my clit, then flip me over and ram into me, making my whole body quake as he claimed every hole. With him, sex engulfed me—sweat-slicked skin slapping, my screams echoing as he stretched me wide. But Jake? He stayed pious, mouth on mouth, hands on breasts, like anything below the belt was sacred ground he wasn't ready to desecrate.

Emboldened by the frustration building in my core, I let my hands wander down, tentatively brushing over the bulge in his jeans. His cock twitched under my palm, hard and straining, and I squeezed lightly, imagining how it would feel thrusting into me. But Jake froze, pulling back with a nervous laugh that shattered the moment. "Whoa, Lia," he said, his voice shaky, cheeks flushing. "I want to make love to you too, but... my parents and little brother are home today. We can't go there. We'll have to wait."

I didn't argue, but the words burned in my throat. Just fuck me here, I wanted to scream. Right in this cramped car, with the windows fogging up and the risk of some farmer spotting us. My thoughts spiraled to Sione again—how he'd taken me in his jeep just last week, forcing my head down as he drove, his massive cock filling my mouth while the engine hummed. I'd gagged and slurped, tears streaming, until he pulled into an empty parking lot, yanked me out, stripped me naked under the streetlights, and bent me over the hood. He'd fucked me raw, his hands gripping my hips as he pounded my pussy, the thrill of potential discovery making me cum so hard I squirted onto the pavement. With Sione, I felt alive, used, desired in the filthiest way.

I nodded at Jake, forcing a smile, but he caught the disappointment flickering across my face. "Maybe... we could find a hotel?" he suggested, pondering aloud. But then he frowned. "I don't have any condoms, though. And hotels are expensive. I mean, we're both still in school..."

The haggling killed the mood entirely. We sat there, no longer touching, the air thick with awkward silence. My pussy still pulsed, unsatisfied, and I found myself wishing I was with Sione—or even Mr. Henderson, with his silver-flecked hair and commanding presence. He'd never hesitate; he'd pin me down in this very spot, force my legs apart, and shove his cock into me, making me beg for more even as I pretended to resist. I imagined him whispering filthy commands, his fingers digging into my throat as he made me cum on his terms, humiliating me by calling me his little slut while I squirted all over him. The fantasy sent a fresh wave of wetness between my legs, but guilt twisted in my gut like a knife. Here I was, in an intimate moment with my boyfriend, and all I could think about was other men ravaging me. What kind of girlfriend was I? Unfulfilled desires clawed at me, leaving me dissatisfied and ashamed.

Desperate to salvage something, I pulled Jake into an embrace, pressing my body against his. "Please, Jake," I begged, my voice husky with need. "Fuck me right here. I need you inside me now." I ground my hips against him, feeling his cock harden again through our clothes.

He laughed nervously, his hands pushing gently at my shoulders to create space. "Lia, come on... the car's too small. And what if someone sees? Plus, I don't want to stain the seats or have to clean up the smell later."

His words hit me like a slap. I got so wet when aroused—dripping, really—and when I came, it was messy, leaving wet spots and that musky scent that lingered. Was that what he meant? Was I too much, too dirty? Insecurity flooded me, drowning the desire. My cheeks burned, and I pulled away, curling into myself. "Just take me home," I muttered, fighting back tears.

Jake's face fell. "Wait, Lia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that..."

But I couldn't listen. The drive home passed in near silence, the farm fields blurring past as guilt and dissatisfaction warred inside me. He kept apologizing, his hand reaching for mine, but I stared out the window, replaying his words, feeling small and unwanted. Deep down, a darker desire stirred—the craving for someone who wouldn't care about stains or smells, who'd force me to embrace my messiness and fuck me until I shattered. But that only deepened the guilt, leaving me aching in ways Jake could never touch.

The days blurred after that awkward car fiasco with Jake, each one a tangled mess of guilt gnawing at my insides like a persistent itch I couldn't scratch. I threw myself into schoolwork, avoiding Jake's texts with lame excuses about homework or headaches, all while my body betrayed me with restless nights, my fingers slipping between my thighs as I replayed forbidden memories. Sione's rough hands claiming me, Mr. Henderson's commanding grip—anything but Jake's hesitant touches. I vowed to myself I'd stop cheating, that I'd give Jake a real chance, but unfulfilled desires simmered beneath my skin, making every glance from a guy in the hallway feel like an invitation to sin.

That Friday after school, I trudged to the bus stop, backpack slung over my shoulder, the autumn chill nipping at my cheeks. The stop sat on a quiet side road near the rugby fields, lined with fading rays of sun like bloody confessions. I stared at my phone, scrolling mindlessly, determined to wait for the bus and head straight home. No detours. No mistakes.

Then I smelled him before I saw him—Sione's musk, a heady mix of sweat, cologne, and that raw, earthy scent that screamed virility. He leaned against his jeep parked curbside, arms crossed over his broad chest, his sunburnt Samoan skin glowing under the late afternoon sun like a promise of being ravaged until I collapsed in exhaustion. His dark eyes locked on me, confident and detached, as if he owned the air I breathed. "Hey, Lia," he drawled, his voice low and gravelly, not a question but a command.

My heart hammered, heat flooding my core despite myself. I froze, glancing around nervously—the road empty, but what if a friend drove by? What if Jake swung around the corner? "Sione, what are you doing here?" I whispered, stepping back toward the bench. "I... I'm waiting for the bus. I can't—"

He pushed off the jeep, closing the distance in two strides, towering over my petite frame. His presence engulfed me, that musk wrapping around my senses like a drug. "Get in," he said simply, jerking his thumb toward the passenger door. No pleading, no hesitation—just assertion, like my resistance was a game he knew he'd win.

I shook my head, clutching my backpack strap tighter. "No, someone might see us. Jake could... or anyone. I shouldn't." My voice wavered, but my pussy clenched at the thought of what awaited if I gave in, memories of his cock stretching me wide flashing unbidden.

Sione smirked, unfazed, his gaze raking over me like he could already see me naked and writhing. "I cleaned my sheets yesterday," he murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted my ear. "Been looking forward to you dirtying them up again."

I blushed fiercely, heat crawling up my neck as I remembered the wet spots I'd left last time, my juices soaking through as he pounded me senseless. "You... you don't mind my smell?" I asked, my voice small, insecurity bubbling up from Jake's careless words still stinging fresh.

He frowned, genuine confusion flickering in his eyes before they darkened with hunger. "Mind? Fuck no, Lia. I love drowning in your smell." His hand grazed my arm, sending sparks straight to my clit. "I'll drink your pussy juice like it's water, lap up every drop while you squirm and beg. Clean that sweet cunt with my tongue until you're spotless, then fill you with my cum so you smell like me—marked, owned."

Those raunchy words ignited something primal deep in my belly, a wildfire that scorched away my resolve. My nipples hardened against my bra, and I felt a fresh gush of wetness slick my panties. Guilt screamed in my mind—Jake's face, his apologies—but desire drowned it out, pulling me under. Before I even registered deciding, I nodded, letting Sione guide me into the jeep with a firm hand on my lower back. The door clicked shut like a trap snapping, and he revved the engine, peeling away just as the bus rumbled past without stopping—the stop empty now, save for the ghosts of my good intentions.

We drove in charged silence, my thighs pressing together to ease the throbbing ache. Sione glanced over, his hand sliding onto my knee, inching upward under my skirt. "Spread 'em," he commanded, and I did, gasping as his thick fingers pushed my panties aside and plunged into my dripping folds. He finger-fucked me roughly while navigating the roads, his thumb grinding my clit, forcing moans from my lips. "That's it, get wet for me," he growled. "Gonna ruin those sheets soon."

The hum of the garage door opener sliced through the night like a summons I could no longer ignore. I'd finally given in after climbing into Sione's jeep and letting him drive me to his place, where we'd fucked for hours—his massive body pinning me down, cock slamming into my pussy until I screamed, his hand clamping over my mouth to muffle my cries as I came again and again, squirting all over his fresh sheets, staining them with the sticky evidence of my sin. The walk home dragged on in a daze, my thighs slick with our mixed fluids, body still humming from the aftershocks, mind numb with the weight of what I'd done. Again. Jake's face flickered in my thoughts, a ghost of guilt that twisted my gut, but the dissatisfaction lingered deeper—Sione satisfied the primal hunger, yet left me craving something darker, more humiliating to fill the void.

And now, as I turned onto my street, Mr. Henderson's garage light blazed like a white square in the silent, sleeping neighborhood—a beacon pulling me in, a moth drawn to the flame of its own destruction. My feet carried me forward without permission, heart pounding as I slipped through the side door he'd left cracked, just like always. The air hit me thick and heavy: motor oil, stale beer, and that unmistakable him—musky, authoritative, the scent that promised degradation wrapped in false sanctity.

He wiped down his motorcycle with deliberate strokes, not glancing up as I entered, his broad back turned to me, his faded gray t-shirt clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. "Was wondering if you'd lost your way," he said, voice casual, as if I'd just popped over to borrow a tool, not to beg for punishment.

I didn't answer. I just stood there, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, pussy still throbbing from Sione's relentless pounding, a fresh wave of wetness betraying me at the mere sight of him. He finally turned, setting the rag aside with a soft thud. His eyes traveled over me—a slow, appraising caress that made my skin prickle, nipples hardening under my shirt as if he could see right through to the slut beneath.

"Were you with Jake tonight, Lia?" he asked, tone still soft, inviting, like a confessor drawing out secrets. "On a nice, wholesome date?"

The lie stuck in my throat, thick and choking. My eyes darted away, fixing on a dark oil stain on the concrete floor. I couldn't form the words, couldn't summon the denial. He saw it all in that silence—the flush on my cheeks, the disheveled hair, the way I shifted as cum leaked from my used hole. He understood everything.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "No," he murmured, the gentleness evaporating, replaced by a dark, thrilling certainty that sent shivers down my spine. He walked toward me, a predator circling its prey, his steps deliberate on the gritty floor. "No, you weren't. My Jessica," he began, voice dropping into that familiar, hypnotic rhythm that made my clit pulse. "She's like a little angel. Pure. Untouched. A gift from God you just want to protect." He stopped inches from me, so close I felt the heat radiating from his body, his breath fanning my face. "But you... Lia..."

His hand hovered near my cheek, not touching, but the proximity ignited fire in my veins. "You're different. You're a beautiful, sullied flower. You've been in the dirt. You know things. You know what men need. You're sinful."

The comparison stabbed like a knife, twisting guilt and arousal into a single, sharp point that pierced straight to my core. I hated it—hated how he weaponized his daughter's innocence against me, making me feel even filthier by contrast. And yet, my body thrilled traitorously, pussy clenching at the degradation, desires unfulfilled by Jake's vanilla touches now roaring to life.

"A slut like you," he whispered, the word a sacrilege echoing in the quiet garage, "needs to repent. She needs a man of God to sanctify her. To give her the punishment she's due."

He didn't need to command me this time. My knees buckled on their own, hitting the rough concrete with a soft thud that sent jolts of pain up my thighs—a sharp punctuation to my surrender. I looked up at him, vision framed by his thick, work-worn thighs, the bulge in his shorts already straining. This was my penance, my due, the humiliation I craved to drown out the dissatisfaction gnawing at my soul.

He undid his belt with that sharp, metallic rasp that haunted my dreams, the sound making me whimper. He wasn't gentle. He freed himself, his cock springing out thick and hard, veined and throbbing, the tip glistening with precum. He guided it to my lips, pressing against them insistently.

"Open," he said, less a request than a reminder of my role—as if I were nothing but a vessel for his "sanctification."

I parted my lips, tongue darting out instinctively. The act felt familiar, yet the context twisted it into something new and terrifyingly intimate. He wasn't some anonymous hookup; he was Mr. Henderson, Jessica's dad, my friend's father, tasting of bitter coffee and faint, musky sweat from his day's labor. His hands tangled in my short hair, not to hurt, but to hold me steady, controlling the rhythm as he thrust in.

He set a brutal pace from the start, hips pumping forward, fucking my mouth with grunting intensity devoid of tenderness—pure, base need. I gagged as he hit the back of my throat, tears streaming down my cheeks, saliva dripping from my chin, but he held me firm, fingers digging in just enough to remind me who owned this moment.

"That's it," he groaned, voice thick and strained, eyes locked on mine with that dark glee. "Take it. You know how. You're not an innocent little girl like her. You're a filthy little thing, aren't you? You love this—sucking cock like the whore you are, while my pure Jessica sleeps soundly upstairs."

The words violated me deeper than the physical act, naming the shameful truth I fled from, using his daughter's purity as a whip to heighten his pleasure—and mine. Humiliation surged through me, degrading me to my core, yet a shocking wave of arousal crested, my pussy gushing fresh wetness onto my already-soaked panties. I was used, broken, and utterly, shamefully turned on, grinding my thighs together for friction as he face-fucked me harder.

He grew louder, more frantic, his cock swelling in my mouth. "Gonna cum. Gonna give it to you. You're gonna swallow every drop. Swallow your sin, Lia. Sanctify it with my seed."

With a final, guttural groan, he shoved deep and held me there, balls pressed to my chin. The hot, bitter flood erupted down my throat, pulse after pulse of thick cum. I choked, body convulsing, nose buried in his pubes, inhaling his musk, but I obeyed—swallowing convulsively, milking him dry until not a drop remained.

He finally released me, stepping back with a shuddering sigh. I collapsed forward, catching myself on my hands, sputtering and gasping for air, strings of saliva and cum clinging to my chin, dripping onto the dirty floor. I knelt there, ravaged and spent, body trembling on the cold concrete, guilt crashing over me like a wave—dissatisfaction morphing into self-loathing even as unfulfilled desires whispered for more.

He looked down at me, tucking himself back into his shorts with casual efficiency, zipping up with a definitive click. "Now," he said, voice shifting back to its usual affable rumble, as if he hadn't just anointed me with my own damnation. "You should get home. Your parents will be wondering where you are."

I nodded weakly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, staggering to my feet on shaky legs. As I slipped out into the night, the garage door humming shut behind me, the weight of it all pressed down—guilt for betraying Jake, dissatisfaction with the emptiness that followed every encounter, and those gnawing, unfulfilled desires pulling me deeper into the abyss. I promised myself this was the end, but even then, I knew the lie tasted as bitter as Mr. Henderson's cum.