His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, not pulling yet, a promise of violation. The polished oak of the table was cool against her trembling thighs.

‘I wanted to be your thought,’ she whispered, the words a hot shame in her throat.

His approving hum was a vibration against her spine as his touch finally slipped beneath the cotton, finding the wet truth she could no longer deny. The world narrowed to the feel of his finger tracing her, the stark text on the page blurring—her confession made flesh under his hand.

He didn’t move. His finger rested there, a single point of contact, a brand. Her diary lay open beside her hip, the neat Polish script a silent witness. She could feel the damp cotton of her underwear stretched taut, the elastic digging into her skin where his knuckles pressed.

‘Say it again,’ he said, his voice low against her ear.

She swallowed. ‘I wanted… to be the thing you couldn’t stop thinking about.’

‘You are.’

His finger moved. Not inside. A slow, deliberate circle over the slick heat of her. The cotton was soaked through. The sound was obscene—a wet, whispering drag.

Paulina’s head dropped forward. Her palms flattened against the cool wood. Every nerve ended where his touch was. The rest of her was ghost.

‘Is this what you wrote?’ he asked. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. ‘This wetness? This ache?’

She nodded, a jerky movement.

‘Use your words, Paulina.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, I wrote… that I would be wet for you. That I dreamed of it.’

His finger pressed harder, the cotton yielding, the pressure a direct answer to the throb between her legs. ‘And now you’re not dreaming.’

‘No.’

He shifted behind her. His other hand came to rest on her hip, his thumb finding the bone. He held her there, pinned between his hand and his single, circling finger. ‘Read it to me.’

Her eyes flew open. She stared at the page. The words swam. ‘What?’

‘The passage. The one I was reading. Read it aloud while I touch you.’

A shudder ripped through her. ‘I can’t.’

‘You wrote it. You feel it. Now give it a voice.’ His finger never stopped its slow, maddening orbit. ‘Begin.’

She drew a ragged breath. Her voice came out thin, cracked. ‘“Sometimes, in class… I imagine his hand…”’

‘Louder.’

‘“I imagine his hand under my skirt. Not like the boys at the club. Not groping. He would be… precise.”’

‘Go on.’

His finger hooked into the soaked fabric, pulling it aside just enough. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, and she gasped. The direct touch of his skin on hers was a lightning strike.

‘“He would know exactly where to touch,”’ she forced out, the words burning her tongue. ‘“He would take his time. He would make me say please.”’

‘Are you saying please, Paulina?’

She was trembling. A fine, constant vibration. ‘Please.’

‘For what?’

She couldn’t say it. The sentence died in her throat.

His finger slid down, through the slick folds, finding the entrance to her body. He pressed. Just the tip. A threat. A promise. ‘Finish the sentence.’

‘“He would make me say please… before he fucked me with his fingers.”’

The approval in his exhale was hotter than any kiss. He pushed inside.

One finger, deep, to the knuckle. Her body clenched around him, a tight, wet fist. A broken sound escaped her lips.

‘Keep reading,’ he commanded, his voice rough now. He began to move, a slow, withdrawing thrust. The drag was exquisite. Agonizing.

She fumbled for the page. Her vision blurred. ‘“He wouldn’t stop. Even if I cried. He would know the crying was part of it. He would kiss my neck and tell me I was perfect… perfect for taking it.”’

He added a second finger.

The stretch was sudden, breathtaking. She cried out, her back arching. Her hips pushed back against his hand, seeking more, seeking everything.

‘You are perfect,’ he murmured into her hair. His thrusts deepened, setting a rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of her heart. The wet sounds filled the quiet room. The smell of her arousal, musky and sharp, rose between them.

‘Is this the confession?’ he asked, his own breath coming harder now. ‘This tight, greedy cunt? Is this the truth of all those pretty words?’

‘Yes.’ It was a sob.

‘Then come for me. Come around my fingers. Let me feel the truth of it.’

His pace quickened. The heel of his hand ground against her clit with every thrust. The coil in her belly pulled taut, tighter, a wire about to snap. She was babbling, fragments of Polish and nonsense, her forehead pressed to the table.

The orgasm tore through her, violent, obliterating. Her body seized, clamping down on his fingers, milking them in wave after wave of brutal pleasure. She screamed into the wood.

He worked her through it, his thrusts gentling, prolonging the shocks until she was whimpering, oversensitive, raw.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers.

The silence was deafening. She heard the wet sound as he lifted his hand. She didn’t need to look. She knew what he would do next.

She heard the soft, deliberate sound of him bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tasted her. A long, slow savoring.

‘The confession,’ he said, his voice dark with satisfaction, ‘is real.’

He leaned over her, his body covering hers. His lips brushed the shell of her ear.

‘Now,’ he whispered. ‘We begin the penance.’