"I'm not afraid," I lie.
"You are. You're terrified. Of your body. Of pleasure. Of losing control. Of liking something you were taught to hate." He takes a step closer and I force myself not to back away. "Let me help you."
"By doing what?"
"By showing you. Gently. Carefully. You stay fully clothed. You stay on the bed. I don't touch your skin. Just—" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Just let me show you what pleasure feels like. What your body is capable of when you're not taught to fear it."
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "No penetration?"
"None. I won't even touch your bare skin."
"You won't—you won't try anything else?"
"Not unless you ask me to. And you can stop whenever you want. The second you say stop, I stop. No questions. No pressure. No consequences."
I should say no.
Should tell him to leave.
Should throw him out and forget this entire conversation ever happened.
But curiosity is killing me.
The books say pleasure is real.
Say women's bodies are designed for it.
Say it's natural and good and nothing to be ashamed of.
But, I don't know if I believe it.
Don't know if my body can feel what they describe.
Don't know if I'm normal or if the Sanctuary broke something in me that can't be fixed.
And he's right—I am afraid to find out alone.
Afraid of doing it wrong.
Afraid of what it might mean about me if I like it.
Afraid of failing at even this.
If he's there—if he's guiding me—then it's not really my choice, is it?
It's him showing me, teaching me.
That makes it less shameful somehow.
God, listen to me.
Making excuses to let this happen.
Rationalization that would make the elders shake their heads in disappointment.
"Just once," I hear myself say, my voice not quite steady. "To prove you're wrong."
Something flickers in his eyes.
