Sisters in Sin

by Primula Bond

  A bird screeched up and I jumped round, leg still cocked. The enormous gardener was there, holding my basket. He turned, and started walking off towards the wine press. I got a better look at him. Tangled black hair and wide shoulders and long legs in baggy blue trousers. Strong brown arms, the muscles flexing as he lifted my heavy basket like it was a punnet of strawberries.

  My stomach knotted. I let the skirt drop down, and again felt suffocated instead of comforted. Would I ever get used to this get-up? I wanted to kick it all off, the skirt, the veil, feel the cold air on my skin.

  ‘What do we do next? With the grapes?’

  He didn’t answer. Of course. He was deaf. I tapped him on the shoulder and he looked round slowly. Oh, Lordy, I had a really good look at him this time and talk about a bit of rough. Wild, unshaven, dirty. And apparently furious. He didn’t catch my eye, or speak. He stared, hard, at my mouth. My hands clenched under my gardening apron, pressing right into my lap. My lips felt hot and swollen, the way he stared. I could hear the breath rushing through, see the pulse pounding in his powerful neck.

  The bell tolled again, and when his eyes flicked sideways it was like a match blowing out. I dithered, wondering if it was time for me to go inside. It wasn’t my coda, but no one had told me what to do. He turned towards the wine press, so I followed him. His arms were so strong, the muscles flexing under the skin. It started to rain. Not the usual insidious Venetian rain, but a real downpour. We both ran across the garden into the press, and the rain thundered down on the cheap tin roof. The gardener dumped the basket and bent down beside a barrel, turned the tap and studied the dark-red liquid pouring into a big jug. The sweet potent aroma made me feel even more pissed.

  I arched my back, aching from bending over those vines. The rain had curled his black hair on his neck, stuck his wet shirt to his spine and ribs.

  Silently he turned the tap off and squatted there on the dusty floor, sniffing the liqueur expertly before taking a swig.

  I was soaked through, and trembled as I went to stand in front of him. It was so easy not speaking. Seductive, even. Why do we all make so much noise? The gardener swilled the liquid round his mouth, staring calmly up at me, then swallowed. A drop of rain was elongating at the end of one curl, ready to fall on to his forehead. It was unusually warm in here. The silence and the still falling rain hummed in my ears.

  He studied my knees, which were on a level with his face, then his gaze ran up my legs, rested briefly on my lap, my fiddling, kneading fingers, then up over my bound chest to my face, which started to go red.

  ‘I’m here to help you,’ I croaked, and coughed. He waited, staring, again, at my mouth. I touched my lips, and they still felt as if they were burning. ‘But I’ve never done this before. This convent lark. This silence. But I guess you’re used to it!’

  Laughter slid dangerously around inside me, and I waved my hand. My sleeve brushed his hair. He jerked his head.

  ‘Would you like to see my ideas for the wine labels? These really won’t do. Not for the commercial market.’

  He started smiling. He had beautiful, even, white teeth. His stubble seemed to be growing darker and thicker as I looked at him.

  ‘You know I’m not really Sister Benedicta, don’t you? Don’t care who knows it, frankly. I’m Sister Perpetua. The new girl.’ I took some labels out of my pocket. ‘The design hasn’t been approved by Mother Mary or Sister Agnes or any of the other seniors yet, and I hope Natalia – Sister Benedicta – won’t mind.’

  I’d drawn the outline of a nun from the back, curvacious in a ridiculously tight-fitting habit, reaching up to pluck a grape. He glanced at the image, then back at me.

  He stood up and came very close, paused a moment. Waiting, maybe, for me to move away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I could feel the wall of warmth between us. The way he stared at my mouth as if he wanted to eat it. Then he lifted his hands and I held my breath. But he didn’t touch me. Instead he sketched my hidden curves with his big hands, tracing the same shape as my design, and buried beneath the ugly bandages my nipples hardened and tingled in response.

  Still the rain drummed on the roof. The drop fell off his hair on to his nose. My veil was weighted with water. The guy took the hem, squeezed water out of it. Heat radiated out of him, even at arm’s length. I tried hard to remain calm and nun-like, but this was a son of the soil all right because as he stared again at my mouth he yanked my veil and the white cap right off and as I screeched and tried to grab them back he held them up disdainfully.

  ‘Hey, signor, you can’t do that – give them back to me!’

  He sniggered and tossed the pathetic piece of cloth into the dark corner, behind the barrels. Slowly I put my hands up to ruffle out my hair. Now he’d know I wasn’t a real nun, but God, how good that felt. He came up and took hold of both my wrists in one hand, wound a strand of tangled hair round the finger of the other hand and rubbed it under his nose as if it was a herb or a petal. I melted at the incredible sexiness of the gesture. No wonder they cut the hair off those poor girls. It was their crowning glory and this guy was starved of pleasure just as they were.

  I could see my reflection in each of his dark eyes, two miniature Jennifers.

  His hands started to slide down my neck, just where Sister Antonia had touched me. He lifted the wet collar away from my clammy skin, and touched where my pulse was hammering. Sparks of electricity seemed to crackle off me. He stared at my throat, down at my apron and the rough blouse underneath it. Obviously with no hearing his other senses were all the stronger. The thought of those senses made me even weaker.

  The rush through the rain had made the rough linen cling to my torso. The man smiled slowly and instinctively I pushed my shoulders back to thrust my breasts out.

  His fingers moved round to flick open the top button.

  ‘We need to do the bottling.’ I tried feebly to pull away. ‘They’ll check.’

  He took his hands away and picked up the jug. Shit. He’d taken my warning literally. No more fondling. No chance of a wicked shag in the wine house. But then he pushed the jug against my mouth and tilted it until I was forced to drink. The wine was so strong, so delicious. The way he was tipping it, some spilt down my chin, trickled on to my skin where he’d opened the button. I wiped my mouth, giggling quietly, and felt the alcoholic haze spreading through me all over again. He smiled and took another big gulp. Now his lips were red, and wet with wine.

  Shards of excitement jabbed at me. I was desperate for another touch, inwardly clamouring to feel one flick of his fingertips again. He was so close I could count every bristle pushing through the dark skin on his chin.

  He started to massage my shoulders so that I was forced to relax. My neck went limp. He undid the next button. And the next. Not easy. They were tiny buttons. A little thought darted into my head. Was he practised at this? It jolted me, and I tried to cover myself, because the buttons were undone to my waist now and I didn’t want him to see how repulsive those bound breasts looked. Sure enough, he stopped.

  ‘That’s right. We must stop.’ I shook my head, started to do up the buttons, but he ripped open the blouse, and started to cut, with his shears, at the bandages underneath. ‘How am I going to bind myself up again now?’

  But we both shrugged at each other. Why the hell was I worrying about stuff like that? I wasn’t a real nun. Was I?

  But I was shivering like a virgin in front of him. My knees buckled. I did nothing to help him. Stood there like a little doll. A pulse throbbed deep between my legs. My sensitive breasts tightened and started to swell, rising up triumphantly like dough as the bandages loosened, cut into shreds, and dropped to the floor. Now they were offered, pale and soft in the shadows. My nipples hardened, dark and red. The man pushed my shirt off my shoulders and traced the ridge of my collarbone, treading his finger tips across the exposed skin and under the shirt again, slowly towards my breasts, and I pushed them brazenly towards him, my breath coming in uneven gasps of longing.r />
  His features became blurred and fused. I closed my eyes, let my head droop backwards as the wine and this man’s surprisingly tender caresses lulled me. He came closer. I could feel his breath hot on my skin. I moved my head so that his mouth bumped up against mine. My breath stopped totally then. I couldn’t move. My lips softened and parted. He rubbed his mouth against my lips. I slid my hands up his back and there was a quiver between his shoulder blades.

  I pressed harder. I was as desperate to touch as to be touched. He flicked the tip of his tongue against my teeth, and then around the inside of my lips, and he tasted of wine but more than that he was masculine, male, strong, salty, sweet, wet, warm. I pushed my tongue inside his mouth and he trapped it, sucking it in between his teeth, so that my face was moulded into his and my body was pressed against the length of him.

  I thought he was murmuring something, but that was impossible. He pulled his shirt off as we kissed then with no further ado he reached down and lifted up my skirt.

  What was left of my pretend sanctity struggled up and I battered weakly at his chest. ‘No, I can’t. We have to work. The bell will go soon and we have done nothing!’

  But he interpreted my lack of conviction correctly and lifted me up and dropped me on to an old pile of hessian sacks, some empty, others full of crackling leaves. He was massive against the rainy daylight. We were enclosed in the darkness. Everything suddenly felt wicked, and dangerous. I really felt as if I was about to commit a terrible sin. I thought, as I lay there, that I must look like some kind of sacrifice. The thought made me wriggle frantically despite all efforts to remain still.

  He reached behind him to grab two bottles out of a crate. He grinned as he ripped a label off my roll of new ones, swiped one across his wet tongue, and stuck it onto the elegant green glass flank. Then he banged in a cork and flourished it back into the crate before spreading out his hands triumphantly.

  ‘Job done! Christ, you are wicked!’ I clapped my hands. ‘You must be like a bull in a china shop, all these women, these nuns, and you the only man!’

  He laughed then, a kind of husky breath, filled up the other bottle and tipped some more into my laughing mouth. This time it splashed all over my breasts, dripped on to my nipples, and we stopped laughing. My dark-red nipples were wet with wine. He remained kneeling. I reached up, and pulled him down on top of me. The rough sacking scratched where my blouse had ridden up. I raised my spine to escape the prickles, arching my breasts towards his hands, his mouth.

  ‘They told me never to speak to you,’ I whispered. ‘But they didn’t tell me not to touch you.’

  He nodded as if he’d heard me, and the warmth inside me flared into fire. Who needs words, anyway? His nostrils were flared with the effort of breathing calmly. He was straddling me now, heavy on my legs. My breath was shallow, barely there. He held my arms above my head with one hand while the other moved to my breast, felt its weight. Then he bent down, muscles bulging in his arm as he supported his weight, and sucked the wine off my nipple.

  I moaned loudly. Oh, yes, this was everything a girl could need. No words, no hassle, no grief. Just hot, hard gratitude.

  He put one knee between my legs, still sucking, opening me, then he lifted my skirt, petticoat, getting to the cumbersome bloomers. I squirmed with confusion, tried to cover the horrible undergarments, but he ducked his head under my skirt to take a good look, the greed and lust in his face making me wriggle even more. Then he pushed the skirt and petticoat up to my waist, cold air playing across my thighs. He yanked the bloomers down. The slight ripping sound was electrifying in its quiet violence.

  So I opened my legs for him as he touched me, right there, in my ready, wet crack.

  Through the thin material of his trousers I could feel the thick outline of his cock jabbing at my thigh, nudging against the cleft at the top. The rain rushed through the door like sudden, hushed voices.

  I was getting frantic now. I wrenched my hands free and took hold of his hips, pulling him up a little so that I could unbuckle his belt. I tore at his jeans. I wanted him inside me, his cock pushing up and fucking me. Oh yeah. A real man at last. All the girls in all the world could never equal the ecstasy of feeling warm strong hands, a forceful mouth and a big stiff cock. Could they?

  He grabbed my wrists and forced them again over my head and this time I was well and truly pinned down while he drew his cock out and let it nudge in between my legs. Forget nudging. I wanted it in there. Now. I wound my legs round him and pulled him in to me. By now he must have realised, if there was ever any question, that I was no more a virgin than Madonna.

  The hay scratched into the crack of my bottom. His eyes burned as he paused inexplicably. He was staring at my mouth again.

  ‘Yes,’ I growled. ‘Read my lips, lover. Fuck me.’

  God, how dirty, how horny, how funny this all was! Fucking in a cold, wet, silent convent garden, far hornier than the plushest of hotels or the sunniest of beaches! An explosive rush of excitement spurted through me, crazy and hot. I was lost. Any more words were stopped by moans of pleasure as he started to run his cock up the soft skin of my inner thighs, guiding it to my swollen wet pussy. I wriggled to get it deeper inside, gripping to take in the warm, throbbing length. No niceties, no teasing, now, just get on and get in and up and faster and as it slid inside I gripped him to keep the fire tight inside and felt the gathering pleasure darken to a hot peak ready to shatter me. No waiting. No possibility of waiting.

  He slid the head of his cock along the tender groove then thrust his cock right in, really hard, until his balls banged against me. Then he thrust again, and again, scraping me against the sacking, lifting me with the violence of it. Vaguely I wondered why he was so hard, so urgent. Had he really not had sex, like me, for ages? Had none of those nuns succumbed to him? Was I the first? Were they all mouth and no knickers? Was I really blazing a trail here?

  My thoughts were obliterated by my own shrieks of pleasure. He crushed me as he fucked me, all that male heaviness and heat on me, then he shuddered violently, kissing and biting my mouth as the excitement burst inside me, too, split my willing not so virginal body wide, wide open.

  ‘If this is the Garden of Eden, then you’re my Adam,’ I chuckled lazily, when I’d got my breath. ‘How about we bottle you?’

  He twined a strand of hair round his finger and pulled my head towards his. I smiled and went on smiling, even when the bell started tolling and I could swear I heard those voices again, a rustling, a snapping of skirts, a scudding of feet away across the wet grass.

  ‘The way you watch my mouth all the time,’ I said, easing my hand down to touch his warm cock. It started to lift and nudge against my palm like an animal. ‘That’s because you’re reading my lips?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was baritone deep, gruff and totally shocking. ‘It’s because next time I want you to wrap them around my cock.’

  * * *

  ‘Well done, playmate. You were worth every penny.’

  My eyes sprang open. Sister Antonia was standing in the doorway of my cell. All the doors had been removed, which I later learned was one of the many punishments imposed on the majority for the sins of the few.

  ‘Penny?’

  She came further into the room. She was wearing the long linen nightgown which all the nuns wore at nighttime, and was carrying, yes, a long, thick candle which, with one of mine, cast the only light in the room.

  ‘Well, not pennies exactly. We use communion wafers. Serious penalties from Father Luca if we’re found stealing those, but they are very handy currency, I can tell you. Anyway we had bets on you fucking the gardener today. Those bells you heard were calling us out for our outdoor exercise. God knows we needed something entertaining to watch!’

  ‘So glad to be of service,’ I murmured weakly.

  ‘Some of us were pretty hard-core gal-pals when we came in here,’ she remarked thoughtfully, one bare foot scratching the other. I noticed on her bare ankle an angel tattoo. ‘But
now you’ve broken in young Zippo, I think we can give him a whirl. The silent stud. How about that!’

  So they hadn’t heard him speaking.

  She turned to go. ‘I do hope you’ll stay around, Sister.’

  Her light went flickering away down the corridor, throwing up Gormenghast-type shadows, and I was left shivering with my thoughts. And with my candles. My fingers strayed under my nightgown. What an amazing day. Two days. There was astonishment round every corner. You’d think that there’d be nothing else to discover after a week or two, but somehow I reckoned there was much, much more to this convent than met the eye.

  And instead of reducing my reawakened sexual urges, being in here made them stronger, more urgent than ever. I pushed up my nightgown. My nails scratched over the cool white flesh of my thighs, sensed the warmth pulsating from my opening sex, yearned to go in further.

  Down the hall Sister Antonia and the other Sisters slept. Or perhaps they didn’t? Perhaps after they’d all watched me and the gardener humping in the wine press, they all lay there dreaming of us or of their past lives full of lovers, remembering naked limbs and bodies rubbing against each other and getting sweaty, men kissing and touching, maybe even other women kissing and touching them. My Sisters, putting fingers inside themselves while they writhed silently on their unforgiving horsehair pallets. And thought of me.

  There was the sweet moisture springing in the one or two tiny hairs growing back on my pussy. There was the pulse, going thickly and strongly, just inside, close enough to touch, still sore from Natalia’s fingers, sorer still from the gardener’s cock. It was a delicious pain, though. And I wanted more.

  I picked up a candle from the box beside my bed, making the others roll and rattle loudly. I felt its smooth, waxy length, the width, the strength which would easily take a bit of a battering, oh, and just right for slipping inside … The clatter of the candles must have woken them, because a couple of doors down someone moaned. Someone else sighed. Just quickly, what would be the harm, why not tiptoe down the passage and see what they were doing?