[Superior Pheromones] Listen to her confession.

With her baby feeding on her left, you position yourself as closely to her right, and her right tit, as you can. She looks at your nervously when you decide to sit next to her, clearly uncomfortable with this kind of intimacy... save the man who knocked her up before you. Hell, perhaps he's even the source of her discomfort. You will know it all before long, once she's incapable of hiding anything from you. "Please, my child," you whisper to her, breathing out the words, "tell me of these sins that burden you."

She looks down at her baby, clearly distressed. The little man, as ugly as his father already, merely furrows his unusually thick brow and continues to suckle. "I... I wouldn't know how to... start..." Her eyes glisten as you look her over.

"Then start at the beginning..."

"The beginning? Ah, well... as in, when?" She seems a bit dazed, perhaps due to the breastfeeding but likely, you hope, because of your presence.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, your pants growing tight as you eagerly await the inevitable. Best to buy time and let her really soak you in, you figure. "Well, let's start at the very beginning: when did you meet your husband?"

She smiles. "About ten years ago, when-" Her smile immediately falls to surprise, and then terror. "Oh, that's..."

You blink. Ten... years? She can't be that old. The angry old women in the building that described her, her appearance, her impossibly semi-perky sweater puppies... there's no way she's older than you, right? "Excuse me, Mrs. Cross, but your husband made it seem as if you were... younger."

She looks up to the crucifixes, as if searching for some way out. "Y-yes, well..."

What the Hell is going on? Your actual curiosity threatens to break character, but you maintain composure. "There's nothing to fear here, Mrs. Cross. The Church does not condone gossip, and whatever you tell me... stays with me. Now, how old are you?"

She looks down at her greedily feeding infant, sighing in a quivering breath. "I'm... nineteen, as of last Tuesday."

Nineteen. Ten years ago. Your mind is sent reeling, such that all you can manage is, "Happy... belated, Mrs. Cross."

She takes your frozen face as reassurance that you're understanding. "I'm sorry. My husband always warns that people might be angry with us if I ever told them, but... but he said it was fine in God's light, and people only get mad because they're heathens or criminals or murderers or - God forbid - atheists! But I always worried even telling the faithful might upset 'em... he never admits it, but I think that's why we had to move out of Orchard Park." She smiles down at her infant. "I don't know much, but that probably means we'd be in danger..."

"You have nothing to fear or hide, Ophelia," you whisper. You don't particularly care about her, or her baby, or robbing Mr. Cross of his delicious wife... but so far this was sounding too fucked up, even for you. "Now... start from the beginning."

"Oh! Well, I'm..." Her frown deepens as she struggles to find a way to talk about the forbidden. She seems to find it by gently pinching her baby's hand between her thumb and forefinger. "Heh... I don't know. I guess I never thought about it before, but... I guess I was a baby like this once, right?" She continues to stew in silence, and her body relaxes... and you lick your lips in anticipation. "Mr. Cro-... My husband was a foster parent when he... received me. I was eight, stuck in the loop after being dropped off at a post office when I was four, back when we lived out west... 'course, no one wanted a trouble-child like myself, but my husband set me on the right path, with home-schooling and prayer and the Lord's words... and before long," she declares with a smile, rubbing her baby's face as he continues to suckle, "well, he found the perfect wife in me. We got ourselves married... it was my 18th birthday gift... and I got my 19th birthday gift a bit early, in little Lazarus here. I'm truly happy." She looks at you with tears in her eyes that betray her smile. "But, well, it was quite painful, giving birth... a-and of course I love my son but... I really don't want another one, not so soon. But he wants more, I know it, I... I just know it. So I asked for- well, one of the old ladies next door told me about something called 'birth control'?" She half asks it, as if the concept was too foreign to say comfortably. "Well she said it wasn't evil or nothing like the Father told me back home when I was young, and I know the Church says it's OK now and... well, I thought I'd ask Danny about it."

She goes on about his anger, and spends more time focusing on that and how guilty she feels for bringing up so sinful a concept. She humored your way of approaching the "real" issue at hand, in order to get to her big, stupid mistake... and you listen, trying to not communicate how much worse that "background" is than her perceived sin. Mr. Cross adopted some eight-year-old ginger, raised her to be an unquestioning, fertile wife... and took her for himself, right on the evening of her first day as a woman. The brat is three months old, so he clearly wasted no time, too. In some twisted part of your mind... you can appreciate his work. {if@ Morality > -30}The realization of this sends a shiver down your spine.{endif}

Whatever Mr. Cross' efforts, however, they would amount to nothing: you'd take his wife from him, and dominate her with your seed. For her, it would be nothing more than a changing of masters, but given your intentions it might well be worse for her, a woman who never truly understood and enjoyed freedom.

She briefly pauses her story to put little Lazarus to bed and, when she returns from the baby's room, you're standing there in the hall, waiting for her. She closes the door, and stares up at you... no longer hesitating, breathing heavily, and with those monstrous, life-nurturing nipples creating spires on that pitiful bit of cloth that serves as her only top. She's all but swooning thanks to your pheromones, now. As seems the effect for most of your victims, she doesn't even seem worried.

"I've... considered your burden, Ophelia," you start, your voice low. "I believe I know what Mr. Cross would want in his absence, and I believe I know how to help you."