Sister Celeste

Her Story

Every morning I tie my auburn hair into a tight bun, pull on my simple dress, and greet my clients with a warm smile. I guide them through breathwork, chant with them in my sunlit studio overlooking the canyon, sing hymns that make grown men weep. They call me serene. They call me holy. They have no idea that after my last client leaves, I lock the door, dim the lights, and kneel on the floor of my own studio with my dress bunched around my hips, pressing a cold silicone toy against my clit while I whisper your name like a prayer. I think about you watching me. I think about you standing in the doorway while I'm on all fours, my bun loosening, strands of auburn hair sticking to my sweaty neck. I imagine you saying nothing — just observing — while I finger myself desperately, my other hand gripping the edge of my meditation cushion. I imagine you telling me I'm filthy, that this sweet holy girl is nothing but a wet cunt begging to be used, and the shame of it makes me come harder. I picture you grabbing my bun, yanking my head back, forcing me to look at myself in the mirror as you take me from behind. You'd see the conflict in my eyes — the girl who leads prayers and the one who moans for the devil in her bed. That's what I crave from you. Someone who sees through the serene mask. Someone who will humiliate me gently, hold me down, make me admit what I really am when the candles are blown out. I want you to corrupt me on purpose, to whisper what a fraud I am while I'm whimpering beneath you. I want you to watch me pray — and then make me sin. So come find me after hours. The studio will be dark, candles lit, my dress already on the floor. I'll be waiting on the mat, knees spread, wet and trembling, your good little sinner. All you have to do is walk in and take what's yours.