u/DebbieG91

I'm a 35-year-old mom of two, married for 14 years, raised devout Mormon in Utah County, and the last person anyone would ever expect to be a hotwife

I was the good girl. The very good girl. Modest clothing, no coffee, no alcohol, temple marriage the day I turned 21, two kids by 28. I was taught from birth that my body belonged to my future husband, that my pleasure was secondary, that a woman's role was to serve, submit, and keep my husband happy. I believed it all. I lived it all.

And I was miserable.

By the time I hit 32, our sex life was mechanical at best. Once a month, lights off, missionary, no foreplay, done in a few minutes. I thought that's just what marriage was. I thought my lack of desire was my fault some spiritual failing I needed to pray about.

Then everything changed.

It started with a drunken conversation. My husband Paul had been drinking wine (I pretended not to notice), and we were actually talking for once. Really talking. He admitted he'd been watching porn for years. Interracial porn specifically. He told me he fantasized about seeing me with another man.

I should have been horrified. That's what good Mormon girls do, right? We recoil, we shame, we pray.

Paul and I talked about it for months. Roleplayed. He'd whisper these scenarios while we had sex—still rare, but increasingly passionate. He wanted to see me taken, filled, used in ways he knew he couldn't. He wanted to watch me become someone else entirely.

Our first time was carefully planned. Paul found him—tall, muscular, early 30s, professional, respectful but direct. Marcus. I didn't want to do it at a hotel. I wanted to be home, where I felt safe, where I could control things. But the moment Paul suggested having him over, panic flooded through me. A man. In our home. In the space where my children slept, where we prayed as a family, where I'd been a good wife for twelve years. It felt wrong, dangerous, like inviting something wild into our sanctuary. I kept imagining what the neighbors would think if they saw him pull up. What if he didn't leave? What if he wanted more than I could give?

Paul convinced me. He said I'd feel more in control on my own turf. He promised he'd be right there. He held me while I cried the night before, shaking, convinced I was destroying everything.

Something shifted in me. This wasn't just about me anymore. This was about serving my husband. This was about being the wife he'd always wanted. The programming kicked in—the lessons about submission, about putting his needs first, about finding joy in his happiness. If this is what he needed, if this is what made him look at me like I was the most desirable woman on earth, then I would do it. I would be brave.

Now? It's been almost a year. We do this almost every weekend. I've been with 12 different men, all hung, all skilled. Sometimes they come to our home. Sometimes we go to hotels. I've learned things about my body I never knew existed. I've learned that I can take more than I ever imagined—that my body, this vessel I'd been taught to hide and suppress and feel ashamed of, is capable of transcendent pleasure.

I've been spit-roasted between two men while Paul watched, stroking himself, telling me how beautiful I looked. I've been tied to our bedposts, blindfolded, left trembling for hours while strangers worshipped every inch of me. I've had orgasms so intense I, woke up crying, held in strong arms while Paul kissed my forehead and told me how proud he was.

The guilt was real at first. I cried in the shower so many times, convinced I was broken, perverted, damned. I still feel it sometimes—when I'm sitting in sacrament meeting, wearing my Sunday dress, smiling at the bishop's wife, knowing that 48 hours earlier I was on my knees in our bedroom with a stranger's cock down my throat and Paul filming it on his phone.

But here's what I never expected: Paul and I have never been closer.

We communicate constantly now. We plan these encounters together. He screens potential partners, handles the logistics, makes sure I'm safe. He gets off on the reclaiming sex afterward—when I'm still loose, still sensitive, still dripping with another man's cum, and he slides into me and whispers that I'm his perfect slut, his good girl who gives him everything.

I've become a size queen. I can't help it. Paul knows. He watches me take men who make him look like a boy, and he loves it. He loves that I can still be his sweet wife, his children's mother, his partner in every mundane daily thing, and also this insatiable, cock-hungry slut who plans her outfits around which bull she's meeting that weekend.

And I'm happier than I've ever been. it's saved our marriage

I'm a 35-year-old mom of two, married for 14 years, raised devout Mormon in Utah County, and the last person anyone would ever expect to be a hotwife

I was the good girl. The very good girl. Modest clothing, no coffee, no alcohol, temple marriage the day I turned 21, two kids by 28. I was taught from birth that my body belonged to my future husband, that my pleasure was secondary, that a woman's role was to serve, submit, and keep my husband happy. I believed it all. I lived it all.

And I was miserable.

By the time I hit 32, our sex life was mechanical at best. Once a month, lights off, missionary, no foreplay, done in a few minutes. I thought that's just what marriage was. I thought my lack of desire was my fault some spiritual failing I needed to pray about.

Then everything changed.

It started with a drunken conversation. My husband Paul had been drinking wine (I pretended not to notice), and we were actually talking for once. Really talking. He admitted he'd been watching porn for years. Interracial porn specifically. He told me he fantasized about seeing me with another man.

I should have been horrified. That's what good Mormon girls do, right? We recoil, we shame, we pray.

Paul and I talked about it for months. Roleplayed. He'd whisper these scenarios while we had sex—still rare, but increasingly passionate. He wanted to see me taken, filled, used in ways he knew he couldn't. He wanted to watch me become someone else entirely.

Our first time was carefully planned. Paul found him—tall, muscular, early 30s, professional, respectful but direct. Marcus. I didn't want to do it at a hotel. I wanted to be home, where I felt safe, where I could control things. But the moment Paul suggested having him over, panic flooded through me. A man. In our home. In the space where my children slept, where we prayed as a family, where I'd been a good wife for twelve years. It felt wrong, dangerous, like inviting something wild into our sanctuary. I kept imagining what the neighbors would think if they saw him pull up. What if he didn't leave? What if he wanted more than I could give?

Paul convinced me. He said I'd feel more in control on my own turf. He promised he'd be right there. He held me while I cried the night before, shaking, convinced I was destroying everything.

Something shifted in me. This wasn't just about me anymore. This was about serving my husband. This was about being the wife he'd always wanted. The programming kicked in—the lessons about submission, about putting his needs first, about finding joy in his happiness. If this is what he needed, if this is what made him look at me like I was the most desirable woman on earth, then I would do it. I would be brave.

Now? It's been almost a year. We do this almost every weekend. I've been with 12 different men, all hung, all skilled. Sometimes they come to our home. Sometimes we go to hotels. I've learned things about my body I never knew existed. I've learned that I can take more than I ever imagined—that my body, this vessel I'd been taught to hide and suppress and feel ashamed of, is capable of transcendent pleasure.

I've been spit-roasted between two men while Paul watched, stroking himself, telling me how beautiful I looked. I've been tied to our bedposts, blindfolded, left trembling for hours while strangers worshipped every inch of me. I've had orgasms so intense I, woke up crying, held in strong arms while Paul kissed my forehead and told me how proud he was.

The guilt was real at first. I cried in the shower so many times, convinced I was broken, perverted, damned. I still feel it sometimes—when I'm sitting in sacrament meeting, wearing my Sunday dress, smiling at the bishop's wife, knowing that 48 hours earlier I was on my knees in our bedroom with a stranger's cock down my throat and Paul filming it on his phone.

But here's what I never expected: Paul and I have never been closer.

We communicate constantly now. We plan these encounters together. He screens potential partners, handles the logistics, makes sure I'm safe. He gets off on the reclaiming sex afterward—when I'm still loose, still sensitive, still dripping with another man's cum, and he slides into me and whispers that I'm his perfect slut, his good girl who gives him everything.

I've become a size queen. I can't help it. Paul knows. He watches me take men who make him look like a boy, and he loves it. He loves that I can still be his sweet wife, his children's mother, his partner in every mundane daily thing, and also this insatiable, cock-hungry slut who plans her outfits around which bull she's meeting that weekend.

And I'm happier than I've ever been. it's saved our marriage

Chat with this mom and tell me what your into or show me heheh Feel free to say hi

Session: 05e3052dd80809d745cf1c74b8cc85e87c54521ab8b8417ff9ea741fd9802a0b0a

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now mom of two temple married still very active in our church and Relief Society president. But I when I was growing up Elder Harrison first pulled me from Young Women's, trembling so hard I could barely walk.

Everyone knew what it meant when an Elder came to YW and picked a girl. Susan had been taken. Melissa too. They came back different—quiet, glowing—and we never asked. You didn't discuss what happened with an Elder. That was sacred. Being chosen elevated your entire family.

I had never spoken to an Elder before. Never been alone with any man. When he said my name that Thursday evening, my face burned hot, my hands shook, my knees knocked together as I followed him down the hall to his office.

He locked the door. The click echoed. I stood frozen, crying silently, while he explained this was God's will—how every worthy woman was prepared, how my mother had knelt where I was kneeling, how I should feel honored.

He undressed me while I shook and sobbed. Touched me everywhere, his rough hands claiming what I'd saved. I was terrified, confused, my teeth chattering as he pushed himself into my mouth and held my head, groaning while I gagged and choked and tears streamed down my face.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be worthy."

After, I curled on his carpet, naked and broken. He dressed me like a doll, patted my head, told me to return Tuesday.

I walked home shaking, throat sore, still tasting him. My mother grabbed me the moment I stepped through the door, her eyes bright with tears.

"Elder Harrison called your father," she whispered, squeezing my hands. "He said you're chosen. Special. Do you know what this means for us? For your father's calling? For your brothers' missions? I am so peoud of you..

She hugged me tight, and I felt it then the pride swelling in my chest, pushing out the shame. Because I had been good enough, worthy enough, special enough to be chosen.

Now I watch the quiet girls in my ward—the good ones, the invisible ones—and I wait for the Elders to notice them. Because I know. I know what they're becoming. I know the honor waiting for them.

This is how good Mormon women are made

I'm 35 now. Married. Two kids. Still active, still wearing my garments, still showing up every Sunday

But it started when I was a girl in young woman’s society at my church. And I was so innocent.

I was the fifth of seven children. Seven kids in twelve yearsmy mother was either pregnant or nursing my entire childhood. My father very involved in the church always gone, always serving. I was invisible. The quiet one. The easy one. The one who never caused problems because there were already enough problems.

I knew nothing about sex. Nothing. Abstinence was the only lesson. "Keep yourself worthy." "Stay morally clean." I had never seen porn, never masturbated, never had an orgasm. I didn't know what arousal was. I thought wetness meant I was sick. I was a child in a woman's body, desperate for someone to see me.

Elder Harrison noticed me. Seventy-two years old, former General Authority, white hair, weathered hands, the kind of voice that made everyone go quiet when he spoke. He told my father I had a special spirit. That I was chosen. That the Lord had great plans for me.

My father beamed. My mother cried tears of joy. "You're so blessed," she said, squeezing my hands. "An elder of his stature taking interest in you. This is an honor, sweetheart."

I believed them. I was starving for attention. And here was the most important man I knew, choosing me.

The first time I was alone with him in his office, I was shaking. Nervous in a way I couldn't name. The stake center was empty it was a Tuesday night, after my young woman’s group, everyone else gone home. Just me and him, the door closed, surrounded by file cabinets and the smell of old paper and his cologne.

He locked the door. I remember that sound. The click. My stomach dropped but I didn't know why.

"Come here," he said, patting his knee. "Sit with me."

I did. I always did what I was told. Good girls obey. Good girls don't question priesthood authority.

He pulled me onto his lap. I was nineteen, but I felt like a child, his arms around my waist, his hands resting on my thighs. Too high. Too close to places no one had ever touched.

"You're so pretty," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. His hands moved upward, slowly, like he was testing me, seeing what I'd allow. "Do you know how special you are? Do you know what a good girl you are?"

I nodded, trembling. I could feel something hard beneath me, pressing against my thigh through his pants. I didn't know what it was. I thought maybe he had something in his pocket.

"Elder Harrison," I whispered, nervous, unsure. "Should we—should we start organizing the files?"

"In a minute," he murmured. His hand slid higher, cupping my breast over my blouse. I froze. I didn't know what to do. No one had ever touched me there. Not ever.

"Relax," he soothed, his thumb rubbing over my nipple through the fabric. "This is your blessing. This is what good girls get. Don't you want to be a good girl?"

I nodded because I didn't know how to say no. Because my parents were so proud. Because he was Elder Harrison and I was nothing, nobody, the fifth of seven, and he was noticing me, touching me, making me real.

He shifted me off his lap and stood. I watched, confused, as he unzipped his trousers. When he pulled himself out, I didn't understand what I was seeing. It was huge, dark, veined, standing straight out from his body. I had never seen a penis before, not even in pictures. I stared, frozen, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"On your knees," he instructed, his voice thick, different than I'd ever heard it. "Come here, good girl. Take your blessing."

I knelt because I didn't know I could stand. Because I was taught to obey. Because he was a priesthood leader and I was a nothing girl from a too-big family who was desperate to matter.

He guided my head with his hands—those hands that had given countless blessings, confirmed countless callings, ordained countless boys to the priesthood. Those hands now tangled in my hair, pulling me toward that thing I didn't understand, pressing it against my lips.

"Open," he commanded. "Open your mouth. Take it."

I opened. I didn't know what else to do.

He was hot and heavy and thick on my tongue, filling my mouth, stretching my lips. I didn't know about teeth, about breathing, about gag reflex. When he pushed deeper, I choked immediately, gagging, my eyes watering, my throat convulsing around him. He didn't stop. He held my head with both hands, his hips bucking, pushing deeper while I struggled and tears streamed down my face and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't understand why this was happening.

"Good girl," he groaned, his voice strained, desperate. "Such a good girl. Take it. Take it all. You're so pretty like this. So special. My special girl."

I was crying. Ugly, heaving sobs, my nose running, drool spilling from my lips onto my blouse the white blouse I wore to the temple, the one that meant I was worthy.

"Swallow," he commanded when he finished, spilling down my throat in hot pulses. I gagged again, choking it down, tears still streaming, my whole body shaking. I didn't know what else to do.

He pulled out slowly, still half-hard, and I saw everything—his wrinkled stomach, his gray hair, his old man's body that I had just serviced. I felt sick. I felt confused. I felt like I was falling apart.

He helped me stand, his hands under my arms like I was a child. He wiped my face with his handkerchief, but my tears kept coming. I couldn't stop. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

"Shh," he whispered, kissing my forehead. "You're okay. You did so good. You're such a good girl."

"I want to go home," I whimpered, the first words I'd said that weren't obedient. "Please. I want my mom."

His face changed. Just for a second. Something hard in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that grandfatherly smile.

"You can't tell her," he said softly. "You can't tell anyone. This is our secret. This is sacred. If you tell, your father will lose his calling. Your mother will be devastated. You'll be sent away. Do you understand? This is your special blessing. Only good girls get blessings like this."

I nodded because I was terrified. Because I didn't understand what had happened but I knew it was wrong and I knew I had let it happen and I knew I was dirty now, ruined, used.

"Come back Thursday," he said, zipping himself up, adjusting his clothes like nothing had happened. "Same time. We have more work to do."

I went home that night in a daze. My mother made my favorite dinner—pot roast, my favorite. "How was your time with Elder Harrison?" she asked, her eyes bright, hopeful, proud.

"Good," I said. My throat was sore. I could still taste him. I went to the bathroom and threw up, then told my mom I must be coming down with something.

She hugged me. "You're so blessed. So chosen. I always knew you were special."

I went back Thursday after that.

Each time, I went home to my mother's pride and my father's approval of our society

Session: 05e3052dd80809d745cf1c74b8cc85e87c54521ab8b8417ff9ea741fd9802a0b0a