Chapter 1
The world beyond the car window blurred into a smear of grey sky and black pines as the road cut deeper into nowhere as we exit the noisy city with the number of cars and houses reducing till none.
My father’s voice droned in the front seat, a steady, meaningless hum, like the low rumble of the engine. I couldn’t make out his words. I didn’t care to. I figured they’re packed with exhaustion and disappointment, running static like the phone call from the school. Polite, clinical, damning.
It had happened again. The first time it did, I was in High school. A pinch of guilt streaked at me, as the first memory unfurled.
A classroom, afternoon light pooling against the blinds, Mr. James sat at the desk beside mine, leaning forward to check the sketch I’d been working on. Close enough for me to smell his aftershave. I remember the way his knee brushed mine under the table. I could have moved away. I didn’t.
Maybe I was curious, maybe I was possessed like Aunt Cassie says, but i slid my hand between his thighs, high up till I felt his body tense. Not with rejection, but with a paper-thin restraint that threatened to break out a beast if I poke further.
I poked further. I always do. It’s fun to. I did till he grew to one side of his thighs, I and I didn’t stop till it took a shape that couldn’t take in his briefs. I unzipped his fly. He had cotton boxer briefs. I easily pulled out the monster that lay underneath his pants. His cock sprang free and I took moisture from the already dripping head and began to pump him. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
I remember leaning down teasing a quick blow, but paused a breathe away. The sound he made was almost inaudible, but I caught it, a low, unguarded exhale. The weight of power in that moment was intoxicating, the way I could draw it out, slow the world down to just the rise and fall of his breath. His eyes flickered toward the door, then back to me, as if each glance was a gamble. When the door opened and Miss Lena’s voice sliced through the air, her face a mosaic of shock and disbelief, he still came all over my hands and the table.
That was the first time. It wasn’t the last, if it were, I won’t be in this car at 4am, sneaking out on exile while Dad grunts in front.
I watched my own reflection in the glass. Pale face. Calm eyes. Lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Beneath it, a churn of guilt, yes, but threaded with something sharper, something I didn’t dare name aloud. It wasn’t shame. Shame never stopped me. The lust was too powerful.
The second time was at my uncle’s house, over the summer. I’d wandered the hallway in the late afternoon, dressed in nothing but a thin pair of panties and the excuse of the heat. His friend had arrived the day before. Tall, sun-browned, with a smile that felt like a challenge. I'd seen him watching me a lot and I knew he was easy. I know these things. Men have a tell sign.
Grumpy and strict at first, I like them strict at first. Till I’m inches away from their cock, and they’re battling words and breathe, trying to say “fuck” too loud in the wardrobe as I guide him into my small pussy. The first time, he came in three thrusts. Then like an angry fighter taunted throughout the campaign, he pumped, and fucked me crazy forgetting to lower his voice in the wardrobe.
That was the last holiday at Uncle Brian’s, and I’ve never heard of Big Uncle Finn ever since.
And then there was the arts lecturer. That one had been almost innocent at first. He’d seen something in my sketches, told me I had a rawness worth shaping. He’d offered extra classes, and I’d accepted, though both of us knew the danger of being alone in that small studio with the door closed.
At first, it was only glances, the kind that lingered a second too long, the kind that carried unasked questions. I leaned closer when he leaned over my work, brushed his sleeve when passing behind him. Small things. Calculated things.
Then bolder and bolder. I'd grab his thighs and squeeze. Then I'd open my legs when I had only my skirt on. No panties.
He knew what it was. Now he started getting drunk.
Weeks passed, the tension thickening between us like oil. I could see it in his hands, the way they would pause above my paper, as if resisting the urge to touch something that wasn’t graphite and canvas.
One evening, I ended the game. My hand slipped past his belt, fingers pressing against the heat of his cock beneath. He caught my wrist, held it there, and I could see the war in his eyes. The last thin line of willpower fraying. His breath shook. Mine didn’t. I pushed, and he broke. He relax and moaned. I leaned in and my mouth covered his cock.
Afterward, he sat at his desk, head in his hands, murmuring something about how this couldn’t happen again.
It did, of course. Until the day a student walked in and saw too much. He was gone by the end of the week, his career scattered like ash. My parents’ silence that night had been the kind that crackles with fury.
I hated myself for it. I hated how easy it was. I hated the thrill I felt even now, thinking about it in the back seat of this car as the convent drew closer. The hate was its own kind of hunger, it didn’t stop me, it sharpened me.
The pines thickened, the sky pressing low. I heard the faint tolling of a bell before I saw the stone walls. The convent loomed out of the mist like something cut from another century. Grey, ancient, unyielding. Arched gates swallowed us whole, the sound of gravel grinding under the tires echoing against the stone.
Through the window, I saw them, women in black habits and pale veils moving between cloisters, heads bowed, hands folded. Their faces were serene, untouched. The air seemed colder here, the shadows deeper.
My father slowed the car to a stop. I stared at the iron cross above the entrance. Maybe this will help, I told myself. Maybe this will end it.
But as one of the veiled women lifted her gaze to mine, I felt the corner of my mouth curve. Just slightly. Enough to betray the truth.
I would not ruin this place.
But the thought of trying was delicious.
