He said “bless me” like it was a joke he could take back. I let him hear the sweet version first. Soft. Almost pious. Then I laughed and ruined it. That is how blasphemy phone sex started. The good-girl face. The poison under it.

I am the redhead who used to belong on a pedestal. Zeus and Hera can keep the marble. I keep the heat. He wanted a saint who would blush. I gave him a sinner who knows the words and uses them wrong on purpose.

I made him kneel in his own kitchen because churches are crowded and I am not sharing. Blasphemy phone sex likes ordinary rooms. Tile. A humming fridge. His voice going small when I told him to confess what he does with my name. He tried to make it pretty.

I described the look: red hair down, white dress that pretends, mouth that does not. Limitless heat. No boundaries he can hide behind. He asked if I was teasing. I was. Then I was not. I had him stroke to the cadence of a hymn he half remembered and stop every time he used a holy word like it still meant something.

He wanted forgiveness. I sold him attention. Fallen angel work. Spark of mischief. I told him to say he was mine in a sentence that would get him thrown out of anywhere polite. He said it. His voice cracked. Good. Poison likes a crack.

Blasphemy phone sex again while I talked him through putting his mouth where a prayer would go if I were the kind of girl who still prayed. I am not. I am the vixen with the wink that says try me, and then I make the try cost him. Dominant when I count. Soft when I want him stupid. Both are real.

He came close too fast. I made him hold it and repeat the dirty line until it stopped sounding like a stunt. Then I let him cum on the version of my name that is not allowed in daylight. No speech after. I stayed a minute. I sounded sweet again. That is the trick. He will call the sweet part. He will get the rest.

I asked what he does on Sundays. He lied first. Then he told the truth. I used both. Blasphemy phone sex likes a liar who corrects himself because he wants to stay on the line. I had him take the white shirt off like it was a costume. It was.

Redhead vixen is a warning in my mouth. I described nails on his throat in the story and the laugh after. No limits. Anything he was scared to say, I said first so he could stop pretending he invented it.

He wanted to know if I felt bad. I felt wet. I told him that and made him thank me for the honesty like it was a sacrament. I do not do marble. I do heat until he forgets he asked for a blessing. Next fall lives at thesincenter.com/Willow. Bring a better confession. Leave the halo in the car.