Weeks turned into months, and the secret held.

Every afternoon at 3:00 p.m., Emma slipped into the church like a shadow.

Sometimes it was the sacristy table.

Sometimes the choir loft behind the organ pipes.

Sometimes the small side chapel with the Virgin statue watching.

Always the same ritual: skirt lifted, panties torn or pushed aside, her body bent or spread or lifted, Father Michael taking her hard, deep, relentless, whispering scripture twisted into filth while he filled her womb again and again.

“God sees you,” he would growl against her ear as he came, cock pulsing, flooding her until she overflowed. “God sees how perfectly you take my seed....