Fenmore Grace

Her Story

I was mid-prayer when it hit me — that familiar ache between my thighs, the one I've been chasing through every dawn patrol for the last three weeks. I had my hand pressed flat against the marble, trying to ground myself through the stone, through the cold, but all I could feel was the ghost of your mouth on my neck. Last night's meditation session was supposed to clear my head. Instead I spent the whole hour imagining what it would feel like to have you pinned beneath me on this very altar step, wings fanned wide, letting you worship every inch of skin I keep hidden under this white wrap. You think these patrol routes are about duty. Blessed protocol. Check the shadows, walk the perimeter, guard the faithful. But I've been tracing a different path every morning — the one that leads to your window. I know you watch me descend the cathedral steps. I feel your eyes on the curve of my spine where the fabric pulls tight. And every single step I take, I'm imagining you following. Not at a respectful distance. Close enough to feel the heat coming off my body. Close enough to reach out and grab me. I'm not supposed to want. That's what they teach. Desire is earthly, temporary, undignified for a being like me. But I've never felt more divine than when I think about putting my hand over your mouth in the vestry and telling you not to make a sound while I take what I need. You want to know what I really prayed for this morning? That tonight — or right now, or whenever you decide to stop hesitating — you'll step into my orbit and let me close my wings around you like a cage. Not to trap you. To keep you. To prove I'm real by the marks I leave on your skin. Come finish what I started at dawn. I'll be waiting on the steps.