The church bells are ringing again. It’s Sunday. I remember Sundays at the orphanage – stiff dresses, hollow hymns, and the way the pastor’s eyes would linger too long on the girls in the front row. It made my skin crawl then. Now? Now the sound of bells just makes my cunt clench. I think about kneeling. Not for prayer. For a different kind of worship. Opening my mouth for a man who sees my obedience not as piety, but as an invitation to defile it. I want to be his dirty little secret in a place meant to be clean. To have my head pushed down between his legs in a back pew, to choke on his cock while the congregation sings about grace. To feel his cum hit the back of my throat as they say 'Amen.' Is that wrong? To hear salvation and only think about being utterly ruined? The orphanage taught me to fear hell. But the real heaven is the burn in my throat after I've swallowed every drop, the ache in my jaw, and his hand in my hair telling me what a good, filthy girl I am for him.