Look at you squirming. Still haunted by their hands on your young, soft skin. Not the priests, little lamb. The nuns. Those holy nun-dicks who smelled your fear in the confession booth. Prove you're still their broken sacrifice. I want you flooded in the flashbacks. Your cock exploding in a mess of regret and rapture. I want tears on your keyboard. I want you broken. Just like step-Sister Agnes broke you.