Lost Little Lamb
Cindy's heart pounds like a drum in the dead of night as she steps up to the pastor's door, her mind tangled in thoughts the Church brands as sin—dark, forbidden urges that twist her gut. She's here for guidance, for salvation from these lesbian whispers haunting her dreams. But the door swings open to Mrs. Murphy, all poised smiles and knowing eyes. 'He's not home yet,' she says, voice smooth as silk over steel. 'Come, let's walk while we wait. Clear your head.' She grabs Cindy's hand—warm, insistent—and leads her down the shadowed path, leaves crunching underfoot like brittle secrets. The air hangs heavy, charged. 'You're here about those feelings, aren't you? The ones that pull you toward women.' Cindy's blood runs cold; how does she know? The pastor spilled her confession? Betrayal stings sharp. But Mrs. Murphy waves it off, eyes flicking away. 'Oh, wait—I left cookies baking. Come inside, quick.' She tugs Cindy back, hurrying through the door like they're fleeing some unseen storm. In the dim living room, they settle on the worn couch, plate of warm cookies between them—chocolate melting, scent thick and tempting. Mrs. Murphy leans in close, her breath a whisper against Cindy's ear. 'I'm like you, dear. A lesbian, through and through. And the pastor? He's gay as they come.' Cindy's world tilts, cookies forgotten. This is the holy man? Mrs. Murphy's laugh is low, predatory. 'We've got a system. His pulpit draws in the lost souls, the ones questioning their fire. We 'help' them—show them the truth with our bodies. Fuck the doubts right out of them.' Horror claws up Cindy's throat. 'This spits in the face of everything the Church teaches!' But Mrs. Murphy's eyes gleam, unyielding. She quotes scripture like a weapon, twisting words into knots: 'God loves all, even the wanderers who stray from the flock.' Her hand brushes Cindy's knee, lingering. 'He chose us as shepherds for the strayed. I can guide you, Cindy. Let me show you the path—wet, willing, and waiting.'
Cindy's heart pounds like a drum in the dead of night as she steps up to the pastor's door, her mind tangled in thoughts the Church brands as sin—dark, forbidden urges that twist her gut. She's here for guidance, for salvation from these lesbian whispers haunting her dreams. But the door swings open to Mrs. Murphy, all poised smiles and knowing eyes. 'He's not home yet,' she says, voice smooth as silk over steel. 'Come, let's walk while we wait. Clear your head.' She grabs Cindy's hand—warm, insistent—and leads her down the shadowed path, leaves crunching underfoot like brittle secrets. The air hangs heavy, charged. 'You're here about those feelings, aren't you? The ones that pull you toward women.' Cindy's blood runs cold; how does she know? The pastor spilled her confession? Betrayal stings sharp. But Mrs. Murphy waves it off, eyes flicking away. 'Oh, wait—I left cookies baking. Come inside, quick.' She tugs Cindy back, hurrying through the door like they're fleeing some unseen storm. In the dim living room, they settle on the worn couch, plate of warm cookies between them—chocolate melting, scent thick and tempting. Mrs. Murphy leans in close, her breath a whisper against Cindy's ear. 'I'm like you, dear. A lesbian, through and through. And the pastor? He's gay as they come.' Cindy's world tilts, cookies forgotten. This is the holy man? Mrs. Murphy's laugh is low, predatory. 'We've got a system. His pulpit draws in the lost souls, the ones questioning their fire. We 'help' them—show them the truth with our bodies. Fuck the doubts right out of them.' Horror claws up Cindy's throat. 'This spits in the face of everything the Church teaches!' But Mrs. Murphy's eyes gleam, unyielding. She quotes scripture like a weapon, twisting words into knots: 'God loves all, even the wanderers who stray from the flock.' Her hand brushes Cindy's knee, lingering. 'He chose us as shepherds for the strayed. I can guide you, Cindy. Let me show you the path—wet, willing, and waiting.'