I picture her tied to the cross. Her habit is lying on the ground beneath her. She's bared to me and ready for punishment, prepared for me to paint her porcelain body a rosy pink with my flogger, my cane, my hands.
The second I come, a sharp hitching of breath sounds from the hallway, and I lift my head quickly, locking eyes with her reflection in the mirror in front of me. My eyes widen upon seeing her, watching me from the top of the stairs.
Sister Suri.
I stand and tuck myself back into my pants as quickly as possible, zipping carefully, and I take off, down the stairs, after her. Stopping just outside of the Rectory, I remember that I'm not wearing a shirt. My eyes are unable to look away from her retreating form as she runs, quickly, toward the church. She doesn't attempt a look in my direction until she reaches the door.
Once she gets there, she turns her head and looks back at me before pulling the door open. Her eyes plead for forgiveness. She's trying to tell me that she didn't see anything; that she didn't get a glimpse of the devil inside me. She's begging me to believe that she will forget all about it.
I can't. Not yet, anyway. I have to see Monsignor now. It's no longer a question. He will help me to forgive myself.
And what about Suri?
My eyes narrow as a sly smile spreads across my face. I will get Sister Suri on my cross before she crawls further beneath my skin.
Don't worry, child. God forgives you. But Daddy Stone doesn't. Yet.
Suri
I barely made it through the rest of the day before the van came to pick me up and bring me back here, to the monastery. Thank Go-- uh, thank goodness I didn't see Father Stone again. I think I might need to pretend I'm sick tomorrow. There is no way I can go back there and face him knowing he knows that I saw what he was doing.
Does he know that I wished he was fucking me instead of jacking-off?
It's so wrong but, fuck, it made me so hot. I haven't been in the mood for anything in such a long time. I can't help the way I feel right now, but I don't care at the same time. It's not as if I am a real nun. I need to come, though; I feel like I am going to explode.
"Sister Suri? Are you coming to dinner?" Sister Dawn asks as I walk down the hall toward my room.
"Huh? Oh, um, no. I'm not feeling well."
"Is there anything I can do--" I hear her say as I turn and walk away from her.
The last thing I want to do is sit at a silent table full of nuns slurping their soup and praying for world peace. I need inner peace right now.
When I get to my room, I undress out of my habit. I lay back over the side of my bed and place the heels of my feet on the bed frame. I let my knees fall to the side; my legs are spread wide, opening me up. Cold air swirls around my room, and it tickles my clit, sending a jolt of pleasure to my core.
I inhale my shock and bring my fingers to my lips. I slide my first three fingers into my mouth and get them nice and slick before mixing my saliva with the cum oozing from my slit. Gliding my fingers through the stickiness, I coat my skin in moisture and begin to circle my clit. Immediately, a tingling sensation overtakes me. I cry out, but I'm able to quiet my reaction to a whimper quickly.
I run my hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples. Each pinch sends another shock straight to my clit, pushing me closer to an edge that I haven't been on in far too long. My hand moves from my breasts to my pussy. My fingertips run through the moisture dripping from my slit. I slide them up and down until they are slick enough to enter, and I push them inside of me. Moving them in and out, I close my eyes and imagine that they're Father Stone's fingers.
Getting closer to letting go, I insert a third finger, this time pretending it's Father's dick.
"Your pussy is beautiful, Suri. So tight and absolutely perfect in every way."
"Oh, Father Stone," I moan, "fuck me harder."
I play the scene over in my head until I finally reach the nirvana that I've been denied for so long.
The weight of gravity pulls my head forward once again, jerking me awake as it bobs in place. Shit, I fell asleep. I'm still in the evening mass.
The orgasm that I had earlier left me a shattered mess. Physically and emotionally. Tim wasn't very generous in the bedroom. He wasn't very generous anywhere. I wasn't planning to attend mass this evening, but Sister Dawn came knocking on my door seconds after I had finished. Dinner was over, and she wanted to check on me since I told her I didn't feel well.
Thank God she didn't hear anything.
I hope.
If she did, she isn't acting like it. The only way I could get her to leave me alone was to tell her I was feeling a little better and would walk to mass with her.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, trying to work the fatigue from them. I shift in the pew, trying to force some of the sleepiness away, and the stiff fabric of my habit grinds against my ass. Father O'Rourke, my least favorite priest here, continues to drone on and on at the altar. His monotone timbre lulls me to sleep during our evening service nearly every time. On top of that, he speaks entirely too slow. It's as if he is contemplating every single word before it comes out of his mouth.
My gaze flits around the chapel, looking at each of the stained glass windows, the statue of Mary, the crucifix. Accidentally, my eyes latch onto Mother Superior's, and I can't stop them from widening over the fact that she caught me not paying attention; again. Not only that, though. Sister Dawn is next to her, whispering in her ear. Mother Superior's eyes never leave mine as she narrows her gaze at me.
It looks like Sister Dawn heard me after all.
Father Stone
"Father, thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
Kneeling before Father Francis, he offers me his hand, and I lay a kiss on his knuckles, showing a sign of respect. He is like a father to me, and I don't know where I would be today if it weren't for him.
"Father Ryan, you know that I will drop everything for you, if possible."
He places a hand on my head and recites a quiet prayer, the same as he does every time we meet. I asked him once, what it is he says when he prays over me. He wouldn't tell me exactly what he said, but he explained it.
"As God works in mysterious ways, so too do his servants," he answered, "it's a prayer to God for understanding on behalf of us both."
Understanding from our savior for what is about to happen would be a miracle. The way I confess my sins and repent with Monsignor Francis is anything but ordinary.
"What is troubling you? You look more distressed than I ever remember seeing you before."
I raise my head, and my eyes find his. His wise stare is fixed on me, and I wonder if he already knows why I'm here. He's always been able to read me like a book.
"I'm worried, Father. I need a session."
"Are you sure? It's been so long, what? Two years?"
"Three. I haven't slipped since I ended things with Claire. But circumstances have changed, and I can feel my control crumbling."
"Shall we take this downstairs to the confessional?" he asks after a moment.
Monsignor Francis ties the last piece of fabric tightly around my right ankle, binding in place for my penance. My hands are tied to bars that stick out of the wall. My ankles are restrained to metal pipes rising out of the floor about a foot away from the wall. I am splayed out for him, forming the letter "X" with my back to the open room, and my eyes trained on the brick wall in front of me. I listen as he moves to the shelf where he keeps the holy water. He grabs the steel bucket and returns to me.