They named her Chastity before she had thoughts of her own.
Before she knew what a body was.
It wasn’t a name.
It was a directive.
Pressed into her like communion on a fevered tongue.
She learned that a girl who wants is a girl who’s already wrong.
She obeyed.
Because good girls don’t want.
She prayed often.
Not to be good, but to stop wanting to be bad.
To stop wanting.
She bit her lips until they bled. The copper-salt tasted like restraints.
She crossed her legs in every seat. Thighs quivering.
She learned to breathe shallow, everything laced tight. Every exhale felt like release.
It worked.
For a while.
Temptation doesn’t knock.
It waits. It is patient. It will be invited in, at a time of weakness or strength unlooked for.
The first tendril-touch wasn’t real, she told herself.
Just a dream.
Just pressure.
Just stress.
Just a dream.
It brushed her calf, near the knee.
She flinched it back like she’d been burned.
She told herself it was not welcome.
She told herself so many things.
All of them: Lies.
Another night, it came again.
Slower.
Wiser.
Patiently learning the shape of her resistance.
And it didn’t press.
It lingered at the deep edges.
Where she was softest.
She fasted.
She recited verses.
She lashed herself with guilt and belief.
She still felt it.
When she slept. In dreams she never admitted.
When she bathed, until bathing made her feel unclean.
When her breath hitched during hymns with too much unsung longing in the melody.
One night, it came when she was awake.
Not fully so; enough to pretend she was dreaming.
It brushed her thigh—lightly.
Just once.
Just enough to let her react.
She gasped and told herself it was horror.
She arched and told herself it was fear.
She whispered “no.”
She meant “not yet.”
Later. Another night.
It slid into her hollow parts.
The absences she’d kept so tightly sealed, they’d started to echo their silence. Locked so tight the latches had become a hollow ache.
It filled her shame.
Soothed it.
Softened it.
Ruined it.
Because now it felt good.
That was unforgivable.
When it was over, she wept.
Not because it had touched her, no, her tears were because she missed it.
She wanted it to come back.
They still call her Chastity.
Now, her name tastes different in her ears. She has not forgiven herself, but nor has she repented. She secretly revels in her shame.
She walks slower.
Smiles wider.
People step back from her like she’s contagious.
Maybe she is.
There’s a new quiet in her voice. Calmer. Less fervent.
Her hands no longer tremble.
She feels it, that low hum under her skin.
That suggestion.
That promise.
It hasn’t returned.
Not since she stopped whispering “no”.
But when she walks past mirrors, she swears her reflection won’t meet her eyes.
“I said no,” she whispers sometimes, only in the quiet of deepest night when there are none to hear her.
Only when she wants it to come back.