Sometimes, when the night is too quiet and the memories of his betrayal sting too much, I find myself slipping into the bath, letting the warm water soothe my aching body. The way it caresses my skin almost feels like the touch of a lover—gentle, but fleeting. I close my eyes and imagine strong hands roaming over my tits, squeezing them just the way I like, before sliding down to my soaking wet pussy. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? A broken girl like me, craving the very thing that shattered her. But the orphans are asleep, the nuns are too busy judging me to notice, and for just a moment, I let myself fantasize about being wanted... no, needed. Not for my title or my family’s wealth, but for the way my body arches when a cock fills me just right. God forgive me, but sometimes the only prayer I can muster is a moan.