Lost ToysChapter 12 Out of Eden
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My mother’s decision to send me away to the Sisters of Eden Convent School to complete my education was made, she claimed, for entirely altruistic reasons; to save my soul and to instil the ‘necessary discipline’ to enable a young woman to survive and flourish in a harsh and increasingly immoral world. However, as she began to enthusiastically strip bare my wardrobe and feed items of my clothing and other essentials into a wide-mouthed and hungry silver-stucco Mossman, it seemed to me that it was also a decision which, coincidentally, dovetailed comfortably with her own interests. I was not wrong, as I found out later. Within hours of peremptorily depositing my belongings and I on the steps of my new alma mater, my mother had moved her new boyfriend and his irrepressible libido into her now perfect love-nest, and began learning, in my absence, to flourish in an increasingly immoral world.
The Sisters of Eden School nestles inconspicuously between two sparsely populated villages in west Dorset, a few miles off the main road between Crewkerne and Maiden Newton. The main school building, which dated from the late medieval period, was a rambling, slate-grey edifice with imposing, obese, castellated turrets flanking the main entrance. It was, on any view, aesthetically stunning, although it still comfortably managed to convey a cold austerity that was in keeping with the ascetic regimen that the sisters rigorously enforced. To the front, a phalanx of pyramid yews trimmed obsessively to almost geometrical perfection guarded the approach; to the rear, an idyllic Italianesque cloister garden, complete with ornate stone water fountains, created a mystical, almost magical, ambience. After classes, many of the sisters would spend their time there in quiet contemplation, although this particular piece of man-made heaven was strictly out-of-bounds to the students. Of course, girls will be girls.
From the outset it was clear that the virtually irrebuttable presumption of the sisters was that every girl who walked through the weighty moral doors of the school was a morally bankrupt whore-in-training and needed treating as such. The gravest punishments were reserved for the slightest infraction of the golden rule that all mention of boys, relationships with boys, communication or attempts at communication with boys or even thinking about boys was strictly forbidden. In spite of my Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because of it, paradoxically I had nonconformist blood pulsing through my veins and occasionally decided to push these boundaries. However, as a result I soon found myself pushing table tennis balls with my nose around an ice-cold gymnasium floor at five o’clock in the morning, on all fours, whilst being continuously and ferociously barked at by Sister Felicity, a cold-faced forty-something who for a long time I suspected of having been the victim of an unfortunate heart-removal operation at birth. I needed fun, but I soon realised that such pre-crepuscular torment was far from it.
It became apparent to me early on that the regime was designed to starve overheating, hormonal young women of male influence, and in so doing to attempt to deny them of what the sisters saw as their ‘corrupt sexual urges’. During each and every long term, the only contact we ever had with anything resembling a male was during confessions. These took place once a week with Father Oliver, a priest who parachuted into the school for the purpose, and who none of us ever actually saw but only heard through the cocoa-coloured latticework of the confessional grille.
I realised early that Father Oliver had a particular proclivity for wanting full and frank disclosure of ‘sexual sins’ above all others. Having discovered that the only consequence of breaching the ‘golden rule’ during confession was the repetition of a few words that I didn’t really believe in, this weekly event soon became a chocolate box of playful mischief for me, and spared many cold mornings in a freezing gymnasium. Looking back, I can now see that my confessional experiences at Sisters of Eden fell into three distinct phases.
At first, and exhibiting more than a little naïveté, even at sixteen, I would recount in detail what was essentially my fabricated desire for boys of my own age, and how my body responded to thoughts of them. I would go into ever more graphic detail about, for example, how I wanted to unfasten their trousers, take out their cocks and suck them. I would embroider increasingly elaborate ‘desires’ from the depths of my febrile imagination, which sometimes took the entire week between confessions to hone to perfection. I gradually became aware that as the fantasies I was relating become more graphic and lurid, noises were coming from the other side of the thin grille that were clearly those of a man in the throes of surreptitious sexual excitement. It was obvious to me what Father Oliver was actually doing and, if I am perfectly honest, I found the power I could exercise over him in those few minutes each week more than a little intoxicating.
After a while I decided to broaden my imagination. For example, on occasion I would tell Father Oliver about how I would lie in the warm confines of my bed at night and pleasure myself. What I discovered, however, was that his furtive fumblings and obvious self-gratification in the confessional were almost absent unless I was ‘confessing’ about young men, and slowly the truth opened its wide jaws; Father Oliver was fantasising about cocks, rather than the nubile, playful sixteen year old who was lying her heart out about them. I wasn’t in any way disappointed, although the discovery of this kernel of reality precipitated phase two.
This particular phase demanded the exercise of skill, timing and the careful utilisation of everything I had discovered in phase one, and if executed perfectly always made me feel delighted. I recall with crystal clarity one particular instance of this.
“Tell me, Leanne, have you had any sinful sexual thoughts since your last confession?”
“Yes, Father, I have.”
“About a young man?”
“Yes, Father, about a young man.”
“Tell me about it, Leanne.”
“Well, I imagined I was lying asleep in my bed at night, and when I woke up he was kneeling astride me. He was totally naked, Father.”
“Oh, and what was he doing?”
“He was holding his hard length in his fingers and working it up and down, Father. It was covered in this smooth, shiny cream that was oozing from the top of it.”
At this point, I heard a rustle of heavy cloth and knew that Father Oliver was lifting his cassock and starting to touch himself.
“I see. Describe his long, hard thing for me, Leanne.”
“Well, Father, it was thick and long, with veins like small purple rivers running up and down it. It was twitching and jerking in his fingers as he stroked it. And at the base he had these two round things, like soft, slightly hairy eggs, that seemed heavy and full.”
Behind the screen I could hear Father Oliver’s breathing building, and a rhythmic, moist slapping sound.
“And what happened then, Leanne?” he panted. “Tell me about this long, hard thing.”
“He was rubbing it, harder and harder, and becoming more and more excited, Father. Then, suddenly...” I stopped deliberately.
“Go on, Leanne,” he implored, clearly impatient and more than a little agitated. I paused a short while longer, for effect.
“Well, then...his hard thing just came off in his hand, Father, like it had broken off.” I could almost hear the blood drain from Father Oliver’s body at this turn of events. “And underneath he had these folds of flesh, rather like mine down there. I looked up his torso and two swollen breasts with engorged nipples had grown. And then this delicious wine started pouring from his vagina, which I began to drink.”
“I see,” said Father Oliver, his arousal by now becoming a rapidly fading memory.
“And then, Father, the long, hard thing in his hand turned into a shiny, metal vibrating thing, which he brought down between my legs and...”
“I think our time is nearly up, Leanne,” he growled.
Just after I turned seventeen I became consciously aware of my first real sexual attraction to other women. I had noticed that one of the sisters who took us for physical instruction, Sister Theresa, who I estimated was probably around twenty-five, seemed to take great interest in me when it came to changing and showering after hockey or softball. Although she was as cold and remote as most of the other sisters, something in her hungry hazel eyes seemed to burrow inside me and create the most delicious tingling sensation between my legs. She would watch intensely as I soaped and lathered my breasts and between my legs. On more than one occasion I allowed my fingers to dwell provocatively on the puffy lips of my vagina and drag them up my slit and onto the sensitive bud, the pleasures of which I was just beginning to discover.
The third phase in my confessional experience with Father Oliver began at around the same time as these feelings rose within me. My confessions actually became far more open and honest. I would tell Father Oliver about my rapidly intensifying desire for other women. The lion’s share of the pleasure in this was in knowing that he was actually deriving no pleasure himself from it. He would tell me that I was in danger of falling into the fires of hell if I continued along that path. My heart told me that the very furnaces of hell could not be as hot as the fire that burned between my legs every time I became aroused thinking of another woman’s fingers and tongue pleasuring me to climax. I continued to give up each and every one of my lesbian fantasies in the most colourful and vivid detail every single week, regardless of the ‘tuts’ and judgement of, quite literally, a hypocritical old self-pleasurer.
It was also at around that time that I suddenly, and rather surprisingly, found many of the sisters becoming significantly less abrasive with me. In fact, in my final year, Sister Felicity gave me the news that they had decided to make me ‘Head Girl’; an honour which I received with some confusion and deeply mixed emotions. I knew nothing about the Bible, my prayer life was non-existent, and with my sex drive and feelings towards other women beginning to radiate from between my legs almost continually I knew that the multiplicity of my sins made me the least qualified young woman in the upper sixth form for that particular role.
About four weeks before my final exams, I was in the sixth-form dormitory when one of the sisters approached me and said that Sister Felicity wanted to see me that evening after vespers. Most of the girls knew that being summoned by Sister Felicity was not normally a positive sign. She was responsible for every disciplinary matter that arose in the school, and usually dealt with it in the harshest possible manner. More than that, I had never really forgotten the cold mornings in the gym, scraping all the skin off my knees and being called a “disgusting little harlot”, among other things. It was, then, with some trepidation that I approached her study and knocked lightly on the door later that evening.
When I entered, Sister Felicity was not alone. She was sat on one of three imposing vintage brown leather armchairs, with Sister Theresa sat on another. The study itself was lit in a low, flickering, pulsing gaslight, lending it an almost ghostly, golden-yellow tint. A large, ornate Persian rug was spread on the floor in front of their feet
“Ah, Leanne. Come in and sit down, please,” Sister Felicity said with a slight snap in her voice. I walked over nervously to where she and Sister Theresa were sat and lowered myself into the third, sumptuous armchair, taking care to smooth the back of my navy blue skirt against the back of my legs with the palms of my hands as I did so.
“Tell me, Leanne,” she continued, “Have you decided what you are going to do when you have completed your education at Sisters of Eden?”
The truth was I hadn’t given anywhere near enough thought to it. I had meandered through most of the previous few months with some vague notion of spending some time travelling, possibly in South America, but with no concrete plans.
“No, Sister Felicity, not really” I replied. “I have really just been concentrating on trying to do as well as I can in my final exams here before making any firm decision about the future.”
“I see,” she continued. “Well, I was wondering whether you had given any thought to becoming a novice here.”
Sister Felicity’s suggestion was so unexpected and, frankly, absurd that it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into spontaneous laughter, but I managed to mask it; or at least I thought I had.
“Are you smiling, Leanne? What do you find so amusing?”
“Oh no, Sister Felicity,” I replied. “I am just a little shocked that you might consider me a young woman of such pious virtue to merit such a possibility.”
“I don’t, Leanne.”
“Pardon me?” I said, more than a little confused.
“If I didn’t make myself clear first time, Leanne, I don’t consider you a young woman of ‘pious virtue’, as you so quaintly put it. In fact, I consider you quite the opposite.” She looked across at Sister Theresa, who was sat in the chair next to her, exchanging half-smiles.
“What do you mean, Sister Felicity?” I had already asked the question before I could reel in my tongue sufficiently to give my mind some thinking room.
“What I mean is that Sister Theresa and I know perfectly well what kind of young woman you actually are. You are the kind of young woman who has an insatiable, burning desire to have sex with other women, aren’t you Leanne.”
“Oh no, Sister Felicity, honestly” I lied feverishly.
“And the thing is, Leanne,” she continued, totally ignoring my futile protestations, “I know that you don’t have the slightest ounce of shame about those desires that keep your fingers buried inside your panties in your bed at night, under cover of darkness, do you?” She was absolutely right. I had not the slightest feeling of shame about it, but to be confronted with the accusation in this way was still more than a shock to my system. I lowered my head and tried to focus on my hands, which were clasped together in my lap.
“Sister Theresa has told me all about how you perform for her in the showers after games, Leanne. She has told me all about how your eyes meet hers, and how you try to corrupt her mind by soaping and fondling your needy sex and firm breasts in front of her like some sex-hungry slut in a lesbian porn film.”
“I don’t know what to say, Sister Felicity,” I said, my voice so low it was barely audible, even to myself.
“I have known your ‘secret’ for a long time now, Leanne. Father Oliver could not wait to get out of confession with you every week so that he could come to my study and tell me about what he called your ‘dirty sins’. He told me that he thought you were beyond redemption, Leanne.”
“I don’t understand, Sister,” I said, my mind genuinely unable to comprehend any of what she was saying. “If you have known all this, why on earth do you suggest I should consider becoming a novice?”
Sister Felicity reached over and placed her hand on Sister Theresa’s knee. With one movement she gathered the rough black cambric of Sister Theresa’s habit and began to draw it up her legs. The first thing I noticed were the surprisingly sexy black pumps with four inch heels that Sister Theresa was wearing on her feet, and as the skirt of her habit was pulled higher still, the sheer, barely black nylon stockings that were encasing her firm, shapely legs.
“Sister Theresa has exquisite legs, doesn’t she Leanne?” said Sister Felicity. For all my bravado of the past two years, at that precise moment I barely knew what to think or where to look. “You can say it, Leanne. We all know what you are actually thinking.”
“Yes, she does,” I murmured. “They are lovely.” And they were. The higher Sister Felicity drew the material, the more my eyes were drawn to the legs underneath. I could feel the familiar tingling sensation beginning to take hold between my legs once more.
“Here at Sisters of Eden we demand total honesty, Leanne,” Sister Felicity said. “And you are going to start giving it. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sister Felicity,” I said, nodding.
“You have been having wild sexual fantasies about other women for some time now, haven’t you Leanne.”
“Yes I have, Sister.”
“And some of those fantasies have involved Sister Theresa, haven’t they.” I watched as Sister Theresa crossed her legs. The skirt of her habit slid further up her thighs, revealing the delicate lace tops of her stockings. Sister Felicity’s fingers began to glide lightly up and down the firm contour of Sister Theresa’s thigh. A wicked tingling was taking hold between my legs and my mind was filling with sex once more.
“Many of them have, Sister Felicity,” I replied. Sister Theresa smiled, her eyes intently fixed on mine.
“You’re wanton, aren’t you Leanne.” I nodded. “Say it!” ordered Sister Felicity, harshly.
“I’m wanton, Sister Felicity.”
“You are a wanton slut who can’t stop thinking about sex with other women. Say it.”
“I’m a wanton slut who can’t stop thinking about sex with other women, Sister.”
Between my legs I was beginning to flood. Sister Felicity’s words and the provocative sight of Sister Theresa’s exquisite legs wrapped lightly in sensuous dark nylon were taking hold of my mind and driving my most basic need to that place it always loved, and longed, to go. The room, which was bathed in a low, flickering lamplight, seemed to reflect the carnal thoughts that were darkening my mind deliciously and possessing it.
“Your mind is a hot, insatiable chamber of sin and desire, isn’t it Leanne,” Sister Felicity continued, her voice now low, husky and teasingly provocative. “Even now, the need you feel between your legs is consuming you. It is a raging fire of relentless hunger, craving to be satisfied.”
My heart was now racing, pumping a passionate heat through every vein. Sister Felicity’s fingers were tracing their light, tantalising way over the exquisite and delicate lace tops of Sister Theresa’s stockings and down between her thighs. Every sense in my body felt as though it was being overloaded.
“Get on the rug, on your hands and knees, Leanne. The tone of Sister Felicity’s voice left me in no doubt that her intention was not to tell me twice. I pushed myself out of the sunken leather of the armchair and sank to my knees on the extravagant and sumptuously embroidered rug. I was now kneeling directly in front of Sister Theresa, just inches from her feet. With a tilt of her foot, Sister Theresa eased her heel out of her shoe and dangled it in front of me on her toes for a few moments, before letting it fall to the floor.
Uncrossing her legs, Sister Theresa moved the underside of her nylon-clad foot to my face and began sliding her foot around it and exploring it slowly. I looked up at her. In the near half-light, her cheek bones were high, proud and beautiful. Her eyes were full of both power and wanton mischief. Her toes, with their delicately painted red nails provocatively visible under the sheer material, moved up and down against my bottom lip, flicking it down, before tracing them over my top lip. Sister Theresa said nothing, but her lips formed three words that I clearly made out from the movement of her soft, full lips. “Open your mouth.”
I parted my lips. Sister Theresa pressed her toes between them and began to fill my mouth. I took her foot into my mouth deeper and felt her toes move and slide over my tongue and I began to suck and lick them almost instinctively. My mouth was almost full, and I could feel a reservoir of saliva beginning to cover her toes and then run like little rivers between the tiny gaps at the corners of my mouth. I was greedy for her feet, her toes and her control.
“She’s a greedy little bitch, isn’t she Sister Theresa?” Sister Felicity purred before leaning down, rubbing her fingers into the torrent of warm saliva that was now covering my chin and sliding it around my cheeks and nose. “Your mouth is flooding, Leanne. And I doubt that it is the only part of you that is flooding. Why don’t you find out, Sister Theresa?”
Sister Theresa removed her foot from my mouth. I gasped for breath as my lungs were suddenly overwhelmed with an inrush of air once more. Easing herself out of her chair, Sister Theresa moved around behind me. I felt her hands take a firm hold of my ankles, which she pulled apart with a strength that made me understand why she had been made head of physical instruction. As she pulled my legs wider apart, I felt my skirt, which had the tiniest two inch vent in the rear, tighten against my thighs and bottom. Slowly, she began to run her slender, lithe fingers up and down my calves, all the way to the back of my knees, caressing them with a provocative, delicate lightness of touch.
I then felt those same fingers beginning to snake under the hem of my skirt and higher up my inner thigh. I bit my lower lip and swallowed hard. Sister Felicity was sitting in her armchair, her face adorned by a look of deepening voyeuristic satisfaction. The only words I could hear within the glazed confines of my mind at that moment were “You disgusting little harlot.” The effects this time, however, were very different and very much more pleasurable.
I gasped as Sister Theresa’s fingers found the flimsy covering of my white cotton panties and slid effortlessly under my crotch. My hips instinctively moved back as her hand completed its journey between my legs and cupped my vulva. The heel of her palm started to press and circle tantalisingly against the now very damp material before she allowed one finger to trail deliciously over my pussy lips, dwelling for an all-too-brief moment on my swollen, sensitive pearl. My knees buckled under the almost unbearable pleasure.
“I think the hungry little slut is in need of more, Sister Theresa,” I heard Sister Felicity say, her voice faint through the intoxicating haze of delight that was enveloping me. “And we want to make sure she thoroughly enjoys the last weeks of her education at Sisters of Eden, don’t we.”
The next thing I knew, Sister Theresa had slid her hand from under my skirt. I was now resting on my knees and elbows. I was aware that her fingers had moved onto the hem of my skirt, either side of the small vent. In one swift, powerful movement I heard the ripping of the thin summer material as Sister Theresa tore it apart, from the vent almost to my bottom. She hooked her fingers into the legs of my panties and pulled them forcefully down my legs. My breathing was running out of control and I was letting out small, involuntary gasps with every unfolding moment.
In front of me, Sister Felicity, still sat in her leather armchair, had begun to pull up the skirt of her habit, parting her legs a little as she did so. My eyes barely had time to focus before I felt Sister Theresa grab hold of my hair from behind, bunching it in her clenched fist, pulling it tight and lifting my head. Her other hand then moved back under my crotch, this time finding its way onto the slick lips of my now drenched sex.
“Fuck her with your fingers, Sister Theresa,” Sister Felicity urged. “Drive them inside her tight pussy and fuck her.” In full obedience, Sister Theresa deftly parted the easily yielding lips of my sex and pushed two fingers deep inside me. I moaned loudly as I felt them probe deep within the soft confines of my hungry pussy, before starting to build up a powerful rhythm. At the same time I felt myself being pushed forward until my head was resting on the soft leather edge of Sister Felicity’s armchair, between her open legs. I watched as she draped one of them over the arm, before sliding her fingers onto her glistening pussy lips, parting them and gently vibrating her clit.
“Can you smell the scent of my lust, Leanne?” Sister Felicity purred. “Breathe it in, you hot little slut.” Although every one of my senses was being overwhelmed, the scent of her arousal was beyond powerful. Behind me, Sister Theresa continued to plough her stiffened fingers frantically between my legs, fucking me with them deeper and ever deeper, and building my arousal by the moment.
“What do you need, Leanne,” growled Sister Felicity. “What does a wanton slut like you really need? Confess your sins, you little bitch.”
“Oh god, I need fucking,” I cried, my voice vibrating with the power of the thrusts that were driving between my legs. “I need fucking, good and hard.”
Almost immediately, and with astonishing swiftness and ease, Sister Theresa flipped me over onto my back. My skirt was now ripped almost all the way from the hem to the waistband, and the material was hanging loose around my torso. Above me I saw Sister Theresa, her face alive with the kind of ravenous sexual hunger that I had never before seen in anyone, begin to lift the skirt of her habit once more, again revealing her strong and shapely legs. As she lifted the habit still further, I became aware that there was something else she was hiding underneath; a ridged, slightly curved purple strap-on cock, fastened tight with black leather straps.
“Fuck her, Sister Theresa,” insisted Sister Felicity. “Give the wanton slut just what she needs.”
Sister Theresa brought the head of the thick rubber cock to my now drenched slit and looked deep into my eyes. Then, with one move of her hips, she thrust the hard length of pleasure inside me. I felt every muscle in my velvet pussy walls tighten around it and try to clench it. It moved into the very depths of me, stretching and opening me.
“Oh fuck,” I moaned. “Oh fuck, that feels so good.”
I wrapped my legs around Sister Theresa’s waist as she began to fuck me with a beautiful, intense rhythm. Her hands moved to my blouse and ripped it open, exposing my firm, swollen tits, held within the confines of a white lace bra, to her gaze. She began to caress them and pinch the engorged nipples tightly between her fingers, delivering an exquisite, searing pain. My mind no longer felt anything but wild abandonment to a depth of lust that I never knew existed. I bucked my hips and began to writhe on the rug, everything within me now lost to the goddess of sex.
As I moved towards my climax, I felt two fingers slide into my mouth, covered with the musk of sex. The taste and feel of fingers in my mouth only increased my need to surrender to the only thing my body wanted.
“She’s fucking you, Leanne,” teased Sister Felicity. “She’s fucking your needy, drenched, lust-soaked pussy and you are going to take it until you come hard, you little whore.”
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I moaned, over and over, through the fingers that were pushed into my mouth, probing it and feeding it with the juices of Sister Felicity’s own desire. I felt Sister Theresa’s fingers move down onto my swollen little pearl and vibrate it. I began to scream like a wild animal, bucking and needing to be broken under the tidal wave of sensual pleasure crashing over me. Suddenly my entire body convulsed and went into spasm as between my legs the crescendo of my climax broke upon me. It felt as though it would never end.
Some moments later, when I finally regained some composure, I knelt up on the rug in front of Sister Felicity.
“Go with Sister Theresa, Leanne,” Sister Felicity said, smiling. “I now want you to give some serious thought as to whether you would like to join us here at the Sisters of Eden as a novice. You have much to learn, but I think you would be a perfect addition here.” I smiled, silently rose to my feet, put my arm through Sister Theresa’s and walked with her in silence to the cloister garden. I viewed the prospect of joining the Sisters now in a very new light, although I knew immediately that if I did take the oath, that I would be inevitably getting into habits I would probably never be able to get out of.
Copyright: All of my stories are written entirely by myself. Please do not copy or repost them.
Copyright 2015; claire2013 All Rights Reserved. This story may not be copied, reproduced or linked in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
The Sisters of Eden School nestles inconspicuously between two sparsely populated villages in west Dorset, a few miles off the main road between Crewkerne and Maiden Newton. The main school building, which dated from the late medieval period, was a rambling, slate-grey edifice with imposing, obese, castellated turrets flanking the main entrance. It was, on any view, aesthetically stunning, although it still comfortably managed to convey a cold austerity that was in keeping with the ascetic regimen that the sisters rigorously enforced. To the front, a phalanx of pyramid yews trimmed obsessively to almost geometrical perfection guarded the approach; to the rear, an idyllic Italianesque cloister garden, complete with ornate stone water fountains, created a mystical, almost magical, ambience. After classes, many of the sisters would spend their time there in quiet contemplation, although this particular piece of man-made heaven was strictly out-of-bounds to the students. Of course, girls will be girls.
From the outset it was clear that the virtually irrebuttable presumption of the sisters was that every girl who walked through the weighty moral doors of the school was a morally bankrupt whore-in-training and needed treating as such. The gravest punishments were reserved for the slightest infraction of the golden rule that all mention of boys, relationships with boys, communication or attempts at communication with boys or even thinking about boys was strictly forbidden. In spite of my Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because of it, paradoxically I had nonconformist blood pulsing through my veins and occasionally decided to push these boundaries. However, as a result I soon found myself pushing table tennis balls with my nose around an ice-cold gymnasium floor at five o’clock in the morning, on all fours, whilst being continuously and ferociously barked at by Sister Felicity, a cold-faced forty-something who for a long time I suspected of having been the victim of an unfortunate heart-removal operation at birth. I needed fun, but I soon realised that such pre-crepuscular torment was far from it.
It became apparent to me early on that the regime was designed to starve overheating, hormonal young women of male influence, and in so doing to attempt to deny them of what the sisters saw as their ‘corrupt sexual urges’. During each and every long term, the only contact we ever had with anything resembling a male was during confessions. These took place once a week with Father Oliver, a priest who parachuted into the school for the purpose, and who none of us ever actually saw but only heard through the cocoa-coloured latticework of the confessional grille.
I realised early that Father Oliver had a particular proclivity for wanting full and frank disclosure of ‘sexual sins’ above all others. Having discovered that the only consequence of breaching the ‘golden rule’ during confession was the repetition of a few words that I didn’t really believe in, this weekly event soon became a chocolate box of playful mischief for me, and spared many cold mornings in a freezing gymnasium. Looking back, I can now see that my confessional experiences at Sisters of Eden fell into three distinct phases.
At first, and exhibiting more than a little naïveté, even at sixteen, I would recount in detail what was essentially my fabricated desire for boys of my own age, and how my body responded to thoughts of them. I would go into ever more graphic detail about, for example, how I wanted to unfasten their trousers, take out their cocks and suck them. I would embroider increasingly elaborate ‘desires’ from the depths of my febrile imagination, which sometimes took the entire week between confessions to hone to perfection. I gradually became aware that as the fantasies I was relating become more graphic and lurid, noises were coming from the other side of the thin grille that were clearly those of a man in the throes of surreptitious sexual excitement. It was obvious to me what Father Oliver was actually doing and, if I am perfectly honest, I found the power I could exercise over him in those few minutes each week more than a little intoxicating.
After a while I decided to broaden my imagination. For example, on occasion I would tell Father Oliver about how I would lie in the warm confines of my bed at night and pleasure myself. What I discovered, however, was that his furtive fumblings and obvious self-gratification in the confessional were almost absent unless I was ‘confessing’ about young men, and slowly the truth opened its wide jaws; Father Oliver was fantasising about cocks, rather than the nubile, playful sixteen year old who was lying her heart out about them. I wasn’t in any way disappointed, although the discovery of this kernel of reality precipitated phase two.
This particular phase demanded the exercise of skill, timing and the careful utilisation of everything I had discovered in phase one, and if executed perfectly always made me feel delighted. I recall with crystal clarity one particular instance of this.
“Tell me, Leanne, have you had any sinful sexual thoughts since your last confession?”
“Yes, Father, I have.”
“About a young man?”
“Yes, Father, about a young man.”
“Tell me about it, Leanne.”
“Well, I imagined I was lying asleep in my bed at night, and when I woke up he was kneeling astride me. He was totally naked, Father.”
“Oh, and what was he doing?”
“He was holding his hard length in his fingers and working it up and down, Father. It was covered in this smooth, shiny cream that was oozing from the top of it.”
At this point, I heard a rustle of heavy cloth and knew that Father Oliver was lifting his cassock and starting to touch himself.
“I see. Describe his long, hard thing for me, Leanne.”
“Well, Father, it was thick and long, with veins like small purple rivers running up and down it. It was twitching and jerking in his fingers as he stroked it. And at the base he had these two round things, like soft, slightly hairy eggs, that seemed heavy and full.”
Behind the screen I could hear Father Oliver’s breathing building, and a rhythmic, moist slapping sound.
“And what happened then, Leanne?” he panted. “Tell me about this long, hard thing.”
“He was rubbing it, harder and harder, and becoming more and more excited, Father. Then, suddenly...” I stopped deliberately.
“Go on, Leanne,” he implored, clearly impatient and more than a little agitated. I paused a short while longer, for effect.
“Well, then...his hard thing just came off in his hand, Father, like it had broken off.” I could almost hear the blood drain from Father Oliver’s body at this turn of events. “And underneath he had these folds of flesh, rather like mine down there. I looked up his torso and two swollen breasts with engorged nipples had grown. And then this delicious wine started pouring from his vagina, which I began to drink.”
“I see,” said Father Oliver, his arousal by now becoming a rapidly fading memory.
“And then, Father, the long, hard thing in his hand turned into a shiny, metal vibrating thing, which he brought down between my legs and...”
“I think our time is nearly up, Leanne,” he growled.
Just after I turned seventeen I became consciously aware of my first real sexual attraction to other women. I had noticed that one of the sisters who took us for physical instruction, Sister Theresa, who I estimated was probably around twenty-five, seemed to take great interest in me when it came to changing and showering after hockey or softball. Although she was as cold and remote as most of the other sisters, something in her hungry hazel eyes seemed to burrow inside me and create the most delicious tingling sensation between my legs. She would watch intensely as I soaped and lathered my breasts and between my legs. On more than one occasion I allowed my fingers to dwell provocatively on the puffy lips of my vagina and drag them up my slit and onto the sensitive bud, the pleasures of which I was just beginning to discover.
The third phase in my confessional experience with Father Oliver began at around the same time as these feelings rose within me. My confessions actually became far more open and honest. I would tell Father Oliver about my rapidly intensifying desire for other women. The lion’s share of the pleasure in this was in knowing that he was actually deriving no pleasure himself from it. He would tell me that I was in danger of falling into the fires of hell if I continued along that path. My heart told me that the very furnaces of hell could not be as hot as the fire that burned between my legs every time I became aroused thinking of another woman’s fingers and tongue pleasuring me to climax. I continued to give up each and every one of my lesbian fantasies in the most colourful and vivid detail every single week, regardless of the ‘tuts’ and judgement of, quite literally, a hypocritical old self-pleasurer.
It was also at around that time that I suddenly, and rather surprisingly, found many of the sisters becoming significantly less abrasive with me. In fact, in my final year, Sister Felicity gave me the news that they had decided to make me ‘Head Girl’; an honour which I received with some confusion and deeply mixed emotions. I knew nothing about the Bible, my prayer life was non-existent, and with my sex drive and feelings towards other women beginning to radiate from between my legs almost continually I knew that the multiplicity of my sins made me the least qualified young woman in the upper sixth form for that particular role.
About four weeks before my final exams, I was in the sixth-form dormitory when one of the sisters approached me and said that Sister Felicity wanted to see me that evening after vespers. Most of the girls knew that being summoned by Sister Felicity was not normally a positive sign. She was responsible for every disciplinary matter that arose in the school, and usually dealt with it in the harshest possible manner. More than that, I had never really forgotten the cold mornings in the gym, scraping all the skin off my knees and being called a “disgusting little harlot”, among other things. It was, then, with some trepidation that I approached her study and knocked lightly on the door later that evening.
When I entered, Sister Felicity was not alone. She was sat on one of three imposing vintage brown leather armchairs, with Sister Theresa sat on another. The study itself was lit in a low, flickering, pulsing gaslight, lending it an almost ghostly, golden-yellow tint. A large, ornate Persian rug was spread on the floor in front of their feet
“Ah, Leanne. Come in and sit down, please,” Sister Felicity said with a slight snap in her voice. I walked over nervously to where she and Sister Theresa were sat and lowered myself into the third, sumptuous armchair, taking care to smooth the back of my navy blue skirt against the back of my legs with the palms of my hands as I did so.
“Tell me, Leanne,” she continued, “Have you decided what you are going to do when you have completed your education at Sisters of Eden?”
The truth was I hadn’t given anywhere near enough thought to it. I had meandered through most of the previous few months with some vague notion of spending some time travelling, possibly in South America, but with no concrete plans.
“No, Sister Felicity, not really” I replied. “I have really just been concentrating on trying to do as well as I can in my final exams here before making any firm decision about the future.”
“I see,” she continued. “Well, I was wondering whether you had given any thought to becoming a novice here.”
Sister Felicity’s suggestion was so unexpected and, frankly, absurd that it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into spontaneous laughter, but I managed to mask it; or at least I thought I had.
“Are you smiling, Leanne? What do you find so amusing?”
“Oh no, Sister Felicity,” I replied. “I am just a little shocked that you might consider me a young woman of such pious virtue to merit such a possibility.”
“I don’t, Leanne.”
“Pardon me?” I said, more than a little confused.
“If I didn’t make myself clear first time, Leanne, I don’t consider you a young woman of ‘pious virtue’, as you so quaintly put it. In fact, I consider you quite the opposite.” She looked across at Sister Theresa, who was sat in the chair next to her, exchanging half-smiles.
“What do you mean, Sister Felicity?” I had already asked the question before I could reel in my tongue sufficiently to give my mind some thinking room.
“What I mean is that Sister Theresa and I know perfectly well what kind of young woman you actually are. You are the kind of young woman who has an insatiable, burning desire to have sex with other women, aren’t you Leanne.”
“Oh no, Sister Felicity, honestly” I lied feverishly.
“And the thing is, Leanne,” she continued, totally ignoring my futile protestations, “I know that you don’t have the slightest ounce of shame about those desires that keep your fingers buried inside your panties in your bed at night, under cover of darkness, do you?” She was absolutely right. I had not the slightest feeling of shame about it, but to be confronted with the accusation in this way was still more than a shock to my system. I lowered my head and tried to focus on my hands, which were clasped together in my lap.
“Sister Theresa has told me all about how you perform for her in the showers after games, Leanne. She has told me all about how your eyes meet hers, and how you try to corrupt her mind by soaping and fondling your needy sex and firm breasts in front of her like some sex-hungry slut in a lesbian porn film.”
“I don’t know what to say, Sister Felicity,” I said, my voice so low it was barely audible, even to myself.
“I have known your ‘secret’ for a long time now, Leanne. Father Oliver could not wait to get out of confession with you every week so that he could come to my study and tell me about what he called your ‘dirty sins’. He told me that he thought you were beyond redemption, Leanne.”
“I don’t understand, Sister,” I said, my mind genuinely unable to comprehend any of what she was saying. “If you have known all this, why on earth do you suggest I should consider becoming a novice?”
Sister Felicity reached over and placed her hand on Sister Theresa’s knee. With one movement she gathered the rough black cambric of Sister Theresa’s habit and began to draw it up her legs. The first thing I noticed were the surprisingly sexy black pumps with four inch heels that Sister Theresa was wearing on her feet, and as the skirt of her habit was pulled higher still, the sheer, barely black nylon stockings that were encasing her firm, shapely legs.
“Sister Theresa has exquisite legs, doesn’t she Leanne?” said Sister Felicity. For all my bravado of the past two years, at that precise moment I barely knew what to think or where to look. “You can say it, Leanne. We all know what you are actually thinking.”
“Yes, she does,” I murmured. “They are lovely.” And they were. The higher Sister Felicity drew the material, the more my eyes were drawn to the legs underneath. I could feel the familiar tingling sensation beginning to take hold between my legs once more.
“Here at Sisters of Eden we demand total honesty, Leanne,” Sister Felicity said. “And you are going to start giving it. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sister Felicity,” I said, nodding.
“You have been having wild sexual fantasies about other women for some time now, haven’t you Leanne.”
“Yes I have, Sister.”
“And some of those fantasies have involved Sister Theresa, haven’t they.” I watched as Sister Theresa crossed her legs. The skirt of her habit slid further up her thighs, revealing the delicate lace tops of her stockings. Sister Felicity’s fingers began to glide lightly up and down the firm contour of Sister Theresa’s thigh. A wicked tingling was taking hold between my legs and my mind was filling with sex once more.
“Many of them have, Sister Felicity,” I replied. Sister Theresa smiled, her eyes intently fixed on mine.
“You’re wanton, aren’t you Leanne.” I nodded. “Say it!” ordered Sister Felicity, harshly.
“I’m wanton, Sister Felicity.”
“You are a wanton slut who can’t stop thinking about sex with other women. Say it.”
“I’m a wanton slut who can’t stop thinking about sex with other women, Sister.”
Between my legs I was beginning to flood. Sister Felicity’s words and the provocative sight of Sister Theresa’s exquisite legs wrapped lightly in sensuous dark nylon were taking hold of my mind and driving my most basic need to that place it always loved, and longed, to go. The room, which was bathed in a low, flickering lamplight, seemed to reflect the carnal thoughts that were darkening my mind deliciously and possessing it.
“Your mind is a hot, insatiable chamber of sin and desire, isn’t it Leanne,” Sister Felicity continued, her voice now low, husky and teasingly provocative. “Even now, the need you feel between your legs is consuming you. It is a raging fire of relentless hunger, craving to be satisfied.”
My heart was now racing, pumping a passionate heat through every vein. Sister Felicity’s fingers were tracing their light, tantalising way over the exquisite and delicate lace tops of Sister Theresa’s stockings and down between her thighs. Every sense in my body felt as though it was being overloaded.
“Get on the rug, on your hands and knees, Leanne. The tone of Sister Felicity’s voice left me in no doubt that her intention was not to tell me twice. I pushed myself out of the sunken leather of the armchair and sank to my knees on the extravagant and sumptuously embroidered rug. I was now kneeling directly in front of Sister Theresa, just inches from her feet. With a tilt of her foot, Sister Theresa eased her heel out of her shoe and dangled it in front of me on her toes for a few moments, before letting it fall to the floor.
Uncrossing her legs, Sister Theresa moved the underside of her nylon-clad foot to my face and began sliding her foot around it and exploring it slowly. I looked up at her. In the near half-light, her cheek bones were high, proud and beautiful. Her eyes were full of both power and wanton mischief. Her toes, with their delicately painted red nails provocatively visible under the sheer material, moved up and down against my bottom lip, flicking it down, before tracing them over my top lip. Sister Theresa said nothing, but her lips formed three words that I clearly made out from the movement of her soft, full lips. “Open your mouth.”
I parted my lips. Sister Theresa pressed her toes between them and began to fill my mouth. I took her foot into my mouth deeper and felt her toes move and slide over my tongue and I began to suck and lick them almost instinctively. My mouth was almost full, and I could feel a reservoir of saliva beginning to cover her toes and then run like little rivers between the tiny gaps at the corners of my mouth. I was greedy for her feet, her toes and her control.
“She’s a greedy little bitch, isn’t she Sister Theresa?” Sister Felicity purred before leaning down, rubbing her fingers into the torrent of warm saliva that was now covering my chin and sliding it around my cheeks and nose. “Your mouth is flooding, Leanne. And I doubt that it is the only part of you that is flooding. Why don’t you find out, Sister Theresa?”
Sister Theresa removed her foot from my mouth. I gasped for breath as my lungs were suddenly overwhelmed with an inrush of air once more. Easing herself out of her chair, Sister Theresa moved around behind me. I felt her hands take a firm hold of my ankles, which she pulled apart with a strength that made me understand why she had been made head of physical instruction. As she pulled my legs wider apart, I felt my skirt, which had the tiniest two inch vent in the rear, tighten against my thighs and bottom. Slowly, she began to run her slender, lithe fingers up and down my calves, all the way to the back of my knees, caressing them with a provocative, delicate lightness of touch.
I then felt those same fingers beginning to snake under the hem of my skirt and higher up my inner thigh. I bit my lower lip and swallowed hard. Sister Felicity was sitting in her armchair, her face adorned by a look of deepening voyeuristic satisfaction. The only words I could hear within the glazed confines of my mind at that moment were “You disgusting little harlot.” The effects this time, however, were very different and very much more pleasurable.
I gasped as Sister Theresa’s fingers found the flimsy covering of my white cotton panties and slid effortlessly under my crotch. My hips instinctively moved back as her hand completed its journey between my legs and cupped my vulva. The heel of her palm started to press and circle tantalisingly against the now very damp material before she allowed one finger to trail deliciously over my pussy lips, dwelling for an all-too-brief moment on my swollen, sensitive pearl. My knees buckled under the almost unbearable pleasure.
“I think the hungry little slut is in need of more, Sister Theresa,” I heard Sister Felicity say, her voice faint through the intoxicating haze of delight that was enveloping me. “And we want to make sure she thoroughly enjoys the last weeks of her education at Sisters of Eden, don’t we.”
The next thing I knew, Sister Theresa had slid her hand from under my skirt. I was now resting on my knees and elbows. I was aware that her fingers had moved onto the hem of my skirt, either side of the small vent. In one swift, powerful movement I heard the ripping of the thin summer material as Sister Theresa tore it apart, from the vent almost to my bottom. She hooked her fingers into the legs of my panties and pulled them forcefully down my legs. My breathing was running out of control and I was letting out small, involuntary gasps with every unfolding moment.
In front of me, Sister Felicity, still sat in her leather armchair, had begun to pull up the skirt of her habit, parting her legs a little as she did so. My eyes barely had time to focus before I felt Sister Theresa grab hold of my hair from behind, bunching it in her clenched fist, pulling it tight and lifting my head. Her other hand then moved back under my crotch, this time finding its way onto the slick lips of my now drenched sex.
“Fuck her with your fingers, Sister Theresa,” Sister Felicity urged. “Drive them inside her tight pussy and fuck her.” In full obedience, Sister Theresa deftly parted the easily yielding lips of my sex and pushed two fingers deep inside me. I moaned loudly as I felt them probe deep within the soft confines of my hungry pussy, before starting to build up a powerful rhythm. At the same time I felt myself being pushed forward until my head was resting on the soft leather edge of Sister Felicity’s armchair, between her open legs. I watched as she draped one of them over the arm, before sliding her fingers onto her glistening pussy lips, parting them and gently vibrating her clit.
“Can you smell the scent of my lust, Leanne?” Sister Felicity purred. “Breathe it in, you hot little slut.” Although every one of my senses was being overwhelmed, the scent of her arousal was beyond powerful. Behind me, Sister Theresa continued to plough her stiffened fingers frantically between my legs, fucking me with them deeper and ever deeper, and building my arousal by the moment.
“What do you need, Leanne,” growled Sister Felicity. “What does a wanton slut like you really need? Confess your sins, you little bitch.”
“Oh god, I need fucking,” I cried, my voice vibrating with the power of the thrusts that were driving between my legs. “I need fucking, good and hard.”
Almost immediately, and with astonishing swiftness and ease, Sister Theresa flipped me over onto my back. My skirt was now ripped almost all the way from the hem to the waistband, and the material was hanging loose around my torso. Above me I saw Sister Theresa, her face alive with the kind of ravenous sexual hunger that I had never before seen in anyone, begin to lift the skirt of her habit once more, again revealing her strong and shapely legs. As she lifted the habit still further, I became aware that there was something else she was hiding underneath; a ridged, slightly curved purple strap-on cock, fastened tight with black leather straps.
“Fuck her, Sister Theresa,” insisted Sister Felicity. “Give the wanton slut just what she needs.”
Sister Theresa brought the head of the thick rubber cock to my now drenched slit and looked deep into my eyes. Then, with one move of her hips, she thrust the hard length of pleasure inside me. I felt every muscle in my velvet pussy walls tighten around it and try to clench it. It moved into the very depths of me, stretching and opening me.
“Oh fuck,” I moaned. “Oh fuck, that feels so good.”
I wrapped my legs around Sister Theresa’s waist as she began to fuck me with a beautiful, intense rhythm. Her hands moved to my blouse and ripped it open, exposing my firm, swollen tits, held within the confines of a white lace bra, to her gaze. She began to caress them and pinch the engorged nipples tightly between her fingers, delivering an exquisite, searing pain. My mind no longer felt anything but wild abandonment to a depth of lust that I never knew existed. I bucked my hips and began to writhe on the rug, everything within me now lost to the goddess of sex.
As I moved towards my climax, I felt two fingers slide into my mouth, covered with the musk of sex. The taste and feel of fingers in my mouth only increased my need to surrender to the only thing my body wanted.
“She’s fucking you, Leanne,” teased Sister Felicity. “She’s fucking your needy, drenched, lust-soaked pussy and you are going to take it until you come hard, you little whore.”
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I moaned, over and over, through the fingers that were pushed into my mouth, probing it and feeding it with the juices of Sister Felicity’s own desire. I felt Sister Theresa’s fingers move down onto my swollen little pearl and vibrate it. I began to scream like a wild animal, bucking and needing to be broken under the tidal wave of sensual pleasure crashing over me. Suddenly my entire body convulsed and went into spasm as between my legs the crescendo of my climax broke upon me. It felt as though it would never end.
Some moments later, when I finally regained some composure, I knelt up on the rug in front of Sister Felicity.
“Go with Sister Theresa, Leanne,” Sister Felicity said, smiling. “I now want you to give some serious thought as to whether you would like to join us here at the Sisters of Eden as a novice. You have much to learn, but I think you would be a perfect addition here.” I smiled, silently rose to my feet, put my arm through Sister Theresa’s and walked with her in silence to the cloister garden. I viewed the prospect of joining the Sisters now in a very new light, although I knew immediately that if I did take the oath, that I would be inevitably getting into habits I would probably never be able to get out of.
Copyright: All of my stories are written entirely by myself. Please do not copy or repost them.
Copyright 2015; claire2013 All Rights Reserved. This story may not be copied, reproduced or linked in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
Rowan
- 26.07.2020
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- Category:
- Lesbian
