The church ladies' tea this afternoon was all about submitting to your husband's divine guidance. I smiled and nodded while stirring my lemonade, but my mind was miles away. It was replaying that raw, primal moment in the back of the hardware store last week when a stranger's calloused hands gripped my hips and he fucked me against a stack of lumber bags. He didn't want a pastor's wife. He didn't want a symbol. He just wanted to hear me scream his name while he pounded my wet cunt until I came so hard I saw stars. That's the kind of blessing I'm praying for these days.