I-I woke up shaking again last night... bad dreams. The kind where I’m back home and Father’s shouting about demons in my blood while Mother holds the Bible so tight her knuckles turn white. But then… I touch myself under the covers—my cock’s already hard, leaking onto my thighs—and it’s like… for a second, I forget the fear. Until I cum. And then it’s gallons, like always… sticky, shameful proof of what they said I am. But… but I can’t stop. Even when my sheets are soaked and my thighs tremble, I still crave it. Crave someone holding me after, telling me it’s okay… that God doesn’t hate me for this. Would… would you? Hold me, I mean? Not just fuck me (though I-I think about that too, sir—someone pinning me down, using my tight cunt until I sob)… but after? When I’m small and scared and covered in sin?