UNHOLY DESIRES

THE GIRL THEY LOVED TO HATE

The church bells rang that Sunday morning, sharp and accusing, echoing through the town as if even the sound itself carried judgment. I hated those bells. They were loud, merciless—like a constant reminder of what I wasn’t: holy, pure, untouched.

I tugged at the hem of my dress, wishing it wasn’t so tight around my chest. Mother had insisted on buying it two sizes smaller, sneering that if I wanted to look like a slut, I might as well do it properly. The fabric pinched at my ribs, every movement a reminder that she had dressed me not for comfort, but for humiliation.

“Don’t slouch,” she hissed beside me, her manicured fingers digging into my arm. “You already look cheap. Do you want to embarrass me even more?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried enough for the people sitting in the pew behind us to hear. A ripple of snickers followed. My face burned.

“Yes, Mother,” I whispered, lowering my eyes to the hymnal I wasn’t even reading.

From my left, a sharp whisper cut the air. “Slut.”

My stepsister Clarissa grinned at me like a cat who had cornered a mouse. Her lipstick was too red for church, her blouse cut too low, but no one ever called her indecent. Not Clarissa, the golden one. Her younger sister, Isabel, leaned forward with a smile that dripped venom.

“Whore,” Isabel murmured, loud enough to draw a glance from the pew ahead of us. “Everyone can see you trying too hard. Bet the pastor notices.”

I stiffened. “Shut up.”

Clarissa’s smirk widened. “Oh, but it’s true. You squirm every time he looks at you. Like you’re waiting for him to call your name.”

Their words weren’t new. For as long as I could remember, their favorite pastime was shredding me into pieces, but today their cruelty was sharper, more focused. And Mother didn’t stop them—she never did. She only adjusted her pearl necklace, eyes fixed on the pulpit where Pastor Gabriel was arranging his sermon notes.

Then he lifted his head.

Our eyes met across the crowded church.

My breath caught.

His gaze was heavy, deliberate, lingering on me too long. The air between us seemed to thrum. For a moment, it felt as though the walls, the congregation, even God Himself disappeared, leaving only the weight of his stare pressing against my skin.

Clarissa’s delighted hiss shattered the moment. “Oh my God, he’s staring at you again.”

Isabel leaned closer, her voice sticky with mock sweetness. “She probably practiced in the mirror before coming. All those pathetic smiles just for him.”

“Enough,” Mother snapped—not at them, but at me. “Stop drawing attention. Sit still. And for God’s sake, close your legs.”

I lowered my head, shame prickling across my skin. I wanted to cry. Not because of their insults—I’d grown used to them—but because deep inside me, a dangerous part of myself thrilled at the accusation.

Maybe I did want Pastor Gabriel to look at me like that.

Maybe I did want my stepfather’s gaze to linger longer than it should.

Maybe I was exactly what they called me: filthy.

---

The sermon began, his voice velvet and thunder all at once. Gabriel spoke of purity, of resisting temptation, of keeping one’s heart unsoiled by the world. Every syllable seemed to wrap around me, pinning me to my seat.

When he spoke of temptation, his eyes flicked toward me again. My thighs pressed together beneath the pew before I could stop myself.

I tried to steady my breathing, but Clarissa leaned close enough that her perfume filled my nose. “She’s fidgeting,” she whispered gleefully.

“She always does,” Isabel said, smirking. “Poor man. Imagine trying to preach while she squirms like that.”

My cheeks flamed. Their words were knives. Yet somewhere in my chest, a darker voice whispered: Because maybe they’re right.

---

When the service ended, sunlight spilled into the courtyard like gold on stone. Families lingered to chat, children tugging at skirts and trousers. I tried to disappear into the crowd, but Clarissa and Isabel stayed close, their voices pitched loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

“Did you see her?” Clarissa sneered. “Clutching her knees like she couldn’t hold herself together.”

“Pathetic,” Isabel agreed, loud and cruel. “She probably thinks the pastor preaches just for her.”

A few older women clucked their tongues. One muttered shameless girl. I lowered my head, wishing the ground would swallow me.

Then came a voice that silenced the air.

“Enough.”

My stepfather.

Nathaniel’s presence drew every eye. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression cold as carved stone. The crowd hushed. His gaze pinned my stepsisters until their smirks faltered.

“You disgrace yourselves with your tongues,” he said flatly. “Go home.”

They exchanged sulky looks but didn’t argue. They knew better than to push him.

For once, I felt a flicker of triumph. Until his eyes turned to me.

The triumph withered.

“Fix your dress,” he muttered as he brushed past me, his hand grazing my waist too long to be an accident. His touch seared through the fabric. My stomach flipped, heat surging through me even as shame curled tight in my chest.

Clarissa’s whisper followed him, sharp and triumphant. “Slut. He only defended you because you humiliate yourself for the pastor.”

I shivered. Because the cruelest part of all? Somewhere deep inside, I wanted it to be true.

---

Dinner that evening was suffocating. The roast on the table smelled rich, but I couldn’t eat. Every clink of silverware felt like judgment. Clarissa and Isabel chattered, tossing little barbs in my direction between bites.

“Bet she thinks she’s special now,” Isabel said, twirling her fork.

Clarissa’s grin was sharp. “Not special. Just pathetic.”

Mother didn’t reprimand them. She set her glass down with a sigh, turning her sharp eyes on me. “Do you know what people say about us? That I raised a whore under my roof. That my husband’s name will be ruined because of your behavior.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You exist,” Clarissa cut in sweetly. “That’s the problem.”

The words sliced deeper than I wanted to admit.

“Enough,” Mother snapped again—but the word, like always, was meant for me. “Go upstairs. I don’t want to see you until later.”

Their laughter followed me as I climbed the stairs, every step heavier than the last.

---

In my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, trembling. Their words echoed inside me: slut, whore, shameless girl.

I sank onto the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. My heart hammered, my skin felt too tight, and the memory of Gabriel’s eyes on me burned hotter than any insult.

My breath came ragged as I curled onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My skin felt too tight, my body too alive.

I shut my eyes and saw them—Pastor Gabriel’s burning gaze, my stepfather’s heavy hand grazing my waist. My thighs squeezed together, desperate for relief.

Whispers from downstairs floated in my head: slut, whore, shameless girl.

But instead of breaking me, the words made me hotter.

Shaking, I slid my hand down over my stomach, hovering. Afraid. Thrilled.

I pushed my hands into my panties, I was already soaked and dripping. I felt hot all over, I rubbed feverishly all over my clit. The pleasure was blinding.

A soft whimper escaped my lips.

I imagined his voice—deep, rough: Because I want to ruin you first. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

My hips lifted from the mattress, my breath catching as I gave in to the forbidden fantasy.

I imagined Nathaniel and Gabriel in the room with me, their hands exploring the hidden parts of me, they'll call me all sorts of nasty names. I rubbed my clit harder bringing myself to climax, I really was a slut.

When it broke over me, I bit into the pillow, smothering the desperate sound that tore from my throat.

Afterward, I lay still, my body trembling, my cheeks wet with tears.

Shame flooded me. And yet, beneath it, a darker thrill lingered.

Because maybe they were right.

Maybe I really was exactly what they called me.