by Primula Bond
It was the same in each little cell, the cells with no doors. One or two girls were asleep, like effigies, stretched serenely with their hands crossed over their chests. But the others? Wow. There was Sister Frances flinging her head from side to side, her knees bent up and falling open as she plunged her candle in and out of her cunt in a rapid wanking movement, ready to come. Next door Sister Lucia was taking it slowly, only just starting to arch her back up off the bed with each slow thrust. And in her slightly bigger cell at the far end, Sister Antonia was on all fours, head buried in the pillow, while one hand fucked herself with the candle, the other played with her cunt, rubbing frantically in counterpoint to the determined push of the candle.
I dashed back down the corridor, past all my groaning, writhing Sisters. I couldn’t wait to get into my hard little horsehair pallet. I lay down, kicked the fraying sheet off me, tickled the tip of the candle on to the soft, already twitching skin, pushed it through the swelling sex lips to be slicked in wetness, eased it inside, oh so gently, back and forth in a little rocking rhythm, careful not to hurt, opening my knees wider to feel its brutal length, felt a scream bunching up as I pulled it back, in again, touched the bud, flares of excitement gripping, burning so hard –
And just then a loud voice, Mother Superior’s voice, barked, somewhere in the shadows at the far end of the corridor: ‘Candles out now, girls!’
There were some intense glances from the Sisters when I came in from the garden for lunch the next day. Eyes lit up even more when they saw I was carrying several bottles of wine. Amazing how silence can ripple, how you can almost touch it. Eyes followed me up and down the refectory as I poured out glasses of wine, Sisters raising chunky tumblers brimming with that ruby liquid with only one question on their lips.
Had I done it again with Zippo the gardener?
They were trying to sense it, smell it off me as I lined the bottles up on the sideboard, new labels prominent, then collected my bowl of soup and sat down on the hard wooden bench to eat. I enjoyed it. Yes, of course I enjoyed it. The attention. The quiet shuffling in chapel, in the kitchen shelling peas, in the scullery scrubbing pans, to get closer to me, the unspoken desire of the Sisters to speak to me if they could find a way. Find out more about me and my world. And what I’d done with Zippo the gardener.
I winced as the soup burnt my mouth. The same mouth that had, as instructed, wrapped itself round his erect cock not an hour since. Even so, it was they who had so much to teach me, I reckoned, looking round at those pale, solemn faces shrouded in their veils. How they existed inside these walls, contemplating poverty, chastity and obedience, and silence, for ever, all the while retaining their wide-eyed, enthusiastic innocence.
I caught Sister Antonia’s eye from the far side of the room. She seemed to be trying to tell me something. Warn me? And beside her Sister Frances, too, was making the sign of the cross and tilting her head towards the chapel.
I started to smile at them both, warm in my new popularity, when the bubble abruptly burst. The double doors opened to reveal Mother Superior. I stifled a smile. Honestly. She should be on the stage. It was like something out of The X Factor. All it needed was the shiny floor, the smoke, hysterical applause.
She glared around the refectory then crooked her forefinger at me. ‘Sister Benedicta. Confession. Now.’
I walked slowly towards her, ramrod-straight, picking up my feet, ignoring that ripple of interest from the Sisters as I arranged my face into the requisite pious expression. Only as I reached her did I realise that Mother had called me Benedicta, not Perpetua. So the swap secret was still safe.
Or was it? This was the first time I’d been up close to her since donning Natalia’s habit, and her eyes narrowed. I bowed my head quickly so she couldn’t detect the obvious differences. Like the fact that I was a good ten years older than Natalia and probably half a stone heavier …
She swivelled like a robot and processed stiffly up the chilly cloister. The wind was slicing in horizontally today, even though we were surrounded by high walls. Boy, had I been glad to shelter in the warm greenhouse at dawn this morning. And even gladder to feel Zippo’s strong, soil-blackened fingers lifting up my heavy skirt and warming the skin on my thighs, sullying them with streaks of earth as he slowly opened them.
She directed me to the chapel and stood aside to let me walk through. ‘Father Luca is waiting.’
‘Forgive me, Mother, but what have I –?’
‘Not for me to forgive.’ Her lips snapped shut like a trap and so did the chapel doors.
The confessional was like an upturned coffin, a huge black Tardis lurking in its own little cloister next to the sacristy. I’d seen other Sisters go in there at all times of day and night, but so far I had not felt the need. What did I have to confess? I’d made no vows. I’d be out of here soon, even though this was my fourth morning and there was no sign of Natalia.
The chapel was empty and silent. Watery sun filtered through the stained-glass window above the altar, lighting the dusty pews and stalls. One ray of light pointed like a finger at the confessional, where the little door was creaking open all by itself. I sat down on a kind of shelf and peered at the metal grille. No one there. I waited. It was a relief, actually. Sitting here on my own, away from the Sisters, away from Zippo. I was aching, and tired. A spot of confession might be quite therapeutic.
A tall figure appeared behind the grille and bent its head in prayer.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have –’ I knew what came next, but I was damned if I was going to say it. And anyway I couldn’t speak. The dust motes in there had swirled straight into my lungs. Didn’t anyone give this thing a good wipe round?
‘Sinned?’
The figure straightened abruptly. His voice behind the grille was clipped, stern and Germanic, not sultry, musical and Italian at all. I felt a sour rush of unreasonable disappointment.
‘No. Not bloody sinned,’ I wheezed. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here.’
‘Sister! For that kind of language the penance will already be high!’
I started to cough again, my fury dissolving into choking splutters. The whole confessional shook. My eyes were streaming, I couldn’t breathe. I wondered how long I was supposed to stay in here talking to an invisible priest. But he wasn’t invisible, because here he was, opening the coffin door.
‘I can hear your sins better in the sacristy, Sister.’
I stumbled after him, still wheezing and coughing. Behind the confessional was his inner sanctum, a high-ceilinged, wood-panelled room lit by another huge stained-glass window and filled with huge silver candlesticks, chalices, vestments and robes and of course the requisite gigantic crucifix. It smelt gorgeous in there. French polish, wine, for some reason that glorious shoe-shop smell of leather, and fresh coffee.
He went and sat on a kind of throne upholstered in purple velvet, motioning with a long white hand for me to sit on a footstool beside him. The light behind him dazzled me a little. At mass and prayers I had only seen him in white robes through clouds of incense, but now he was wearing a simple black cassock. The priestly undergarment beneath all that flamboyance. Thirty-three tiny black buttons marched down the front, representing Christ’s years. Five buttons on each sleeve, representing His wounds. A big silver cross rested on his chest.
As I gulped down some water he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, so that I could see the tensing of his stomach and the working of his muscles, the flexing of his knees, the swinging of his ankle in a perfectly smooth sock above a highly polished shoe.
The silence between us was almost spiritual. Neither of us was in any hurry. Outside, branches scratched at the window. I tried to remember when I had last sat so still, with no phone ringing, no client badgering, no train or plane to catch, no deadline. London, Hazel, all so far away. Another planet …
A bell started tolling, such a familiar sound to me now. It was the coda for Sister Agnes. Or was it for special chores? But the peace in her
e was mesmerising.
And so was Father Luca. I stared at his face, now that I was used to the light. He really was like a Bond villain. Cropped hair, steely grey eyes and an angry jaw. Speckles of silvery bristles. Mother Superior must have surprised him, dragged him out of his quarters to hear my evil confession before he’d had a chance to shave. I lowered my eyes to rove over the long black coat, encasing his torso like a glove, the way it clung to his flat stomach, smoothed over the suppressed swell in his groin, flowed to his feet. Like a soldier’s mess kit, it would make the plainest of men look glamorous.
My eyes were dragged back to his groin, even though his hands were folded over it now. What demon did he have hidden under there? He, it, was sacred. Untouchable. A slow warmth seeped through my veins like liquid aphrodisiac. Or speed. My heart jolted, and started to pound a little faster. I sat up a little straighter on the uncomfortable stool and thought what to say, how to keep us both here. How to elongate the moment.
Here was a man, an extremely handsome man, surrounded by Sisters forbidden to sin. What would it take to unleash his human side?
‘Why did Mother send you to me?’
Because she knows I seem to be permanently horny these days?
‘Because of all the deception, Father. I lied to come in here. Sort of. And I’ve sinned within these walls.’
He dipped his head as if I’d just propounded a scientific theory, rested one finger on his chin.
‘God will never forgive me!’
It came out more passionately than I intended, but somehow I meant it. I pressed my face into my hands.
‘Go on, Sister. He will forgive you, but only if you confess what you have done to me.’
I shook my head and moaned a little. ‘The sin is too terrible.’
He squeezed my shoulder. Honestly, it was like an electric shock. I gasped and looked up at him, my mouth open, and he was staring intently at me. He took his hand away, but gently, stroking it across my back before returning it to his lap.
‘The sin, Sister.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Tell me.’
‘Where do I start?’ I shook my head as if struggling with devilish voices. ‘I’m not a virgin, Father. I love it here, but I don’t belong. Sinful thoughts plague me, day and night. And I don’t leave it there. I act on them. I have done sinful things.’
To echo my words I punched at his thigh, as if to demonstrate those same wicked actions. The muscle under the black cloth was rock hard. My fingers fell open, waiting for him to repulse me, but he didn’t. I rested my hand on his leg, lightly at first, while I watched, under cover of some residual sighing, that place under his robe which I was determined to rouse.
‘The sinful things, Sister. You must unburden yourself before I can give you penance.’
I looked up at him and bit my lip, harder than I meant to. I could taste blood. His hand came down over mine, where it rested on his thigh.
‘I have touched myself, Father, at night, with my fingers, to give myself sexual pleasure. And I’ve done it with the candles. I’ve encouraged the other Sisters to do the same. To push the candles hard inside our bodies, to fuck ourselves with the candles. All the time wishing they were a man’s penis.’
He swallowed and went very pale, and stopped swinging his foot.
I lowered my eyes, lifted them again to let him see the fluttering of my super-long eyelashes.
‘And on my first day here I was in a cell with another Sister and she touched me. We kissed, and we undressed each other, and we sucked on each other’s breasts and vaginas. We made love and we made each other come.’
He shifted in his chair and turned to face the window so that the harsh light outlined his stony features. His tongue ran across his lower lip, leaving a slick of wetness.
‘You made love. So it was an act of love, perhaps, not sin.’ His voice was croaky.
‘I think I do love her, yes, but that’s a sin in itself, isn’t it? We’re not allowed to have friends in here, let alone favourites, but I’m sure the Sisters are all at it, Father. I mean, I’ve seen Sister Agnes and Sister Frances, they’re always together, side by side, in chapel, in the kitchen, walking in the cloisters –’
‘That is a matter for them. But this other Sister. The Sister you – you touched. Why is she not here for confession as well?’
‘I don’t know where she is! She’s run away and left me in here!’
There was a brief silence. He bowed his head. This seemed to be the end of it.
I tried a little harder. ‘So I have sinned even more, Father, and touched someone else.’
Our hands were still resting together on his leg. I curled one finger tentatively to grip one of his, and his fingers brushed across the palm of my hand. My pussy twitched, and more heat surged through me.
‘Whom have you touched?’
I’d caught him unawares, that was for sure. He uncrossed his legs and brought both feet to the floor, leaning towards me. I could smell the soapy freshness of his skin, see lust flickering alight in his eyes. I flicked my stupid white veil away from my cheek.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be saying Mass in a minute?’
He took me by the shoulders. ‘Whom else have you touched, Sister?’
The breath stopped in my throat when I caught the look in his eyes. They were literally burning. His fingers were digging into me, the pain radiating warmth through my bones.
‘The gardener, Father. Zippo.’ I beat my hands on his chest, making the silver cross bounce. ‘I really think this is the Garden of Eden and I’m Eve, or he’s Adam. Maybe he’s the snake.’
‘He’s the man, so he is the one who has led you into temptation.’ Father Luca started to shake me, and the movement seemed to wake us both up. ‘What did he make you do?’
‘I came in here with good intentions, honestly I did, even though I was pretending to be Sister Benedicta, but I couldn’t help it. I can’t give up my worldly ways. I shouldn’t be in here –’
‘What exactly did you do with this Zippo?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I let him take me. Fuck me, Father. Yesterday, in the wine house when we were working. And this morning I was out there again, and this time he wanted me to suck him off, and I did that, I’m known for it, because I swallow. Then I climbed on top of him, because that’s my favourite position, and it was my turn, and I got him hard again and rode him like a cowgirl!’
The silence stretched taut like elastic. Even the bells were hushed. Those words! Why did I use those words? With any luck he hadn’t understood.
Father Luca understood all right. He pulled me roughly towards him so that I fell right off my wooden stool and was half kneeling, half swooning in his arms. He started to give me an awkward brotherly, fatherly hug, didn’t really know what to do with himself, but as I slipped across his knees he ended up lifting me and now I was pressed hard against his chest, his chin banging against my cheekbone. I curled my arms round him, skin crawling with lust on the outside, the sexy core of me melting with desire deep inside.
‘Such a bewitching face. Sex written all over it,’ he growled into my cheek. ‘The devil really has sent you to try us. Me.’
I made a token effort to wriggle away, but his hands kept me still.
‘So what happens now, Father?’ I lowered my eyes in shame, sliding my hands up and down his legs distractedly, as if to push away my sins. The black cloth wrinkled, but he didn’t stop me touching him. ‘I’ve had sex, right here in the convent, under your noses! What does the Bible say? I’ve had carnal knowledge!’
I was hot now, breathing hard, and so was he. The sacristy was suddenly stuffy, even though the trees outside were battering to get in. How had the other Sisters not seen the frustration in this man, every day offering up prayers while in front of him the congregation seethed with thwarted female urges?
‘Go on talking, Sister.’
His voice rasped like raw silk on my neck as I bowed my head. My hands had reached the tops of his legs now, and he shif
ted them very slightly apart.
‘And the worst of it is, I loved it, Father. I wanted more. That makes me very bad, doesn’t it?’ I looked up at his throat, and saw him swallowing hard, several times. I bent forwards, pressed my face against his, let my lips move against his cheek so that I could feel the harsh rub of his bristles. ‘Or maybe that makes me very good?’
A great shiver went through him. ‘I shouldn’t listen to this. I can’t be near you any more.’
‘Oh, but you have to listen! Mother Superior sent me here to tell you my sins.’ I ran my hands up his chest and hooked my fingers into his collar so that he couldn’t get away. ‘There’s no one else I can tell.’
His hands fell from my arms. I stayed where I was, leaning more heavily against him, but kept very still. We could hear the anticipation ticking like a clock between us. His breath was in my ears. My lips, still against his skin, started to caress. Another violent shiver convulsed him from his groin right up his body. His hands landed on my hips. Didn’t land. Fell, grappled, grabbed, circled my waist, fanned out to clutch at my buttocks, as if he was fighting for purchase on a cliff.
I reached for the top button of his cassock, took it between my fingertips as delicately as I could. The tiny disc slipped, wet from my sweat as my fingers trembled. My uneven breath was the only movement I couldn’t keep under control.
‘What is my penance, Father?’ I undid the top button and he gave a kind of rasping choke. Christ, this guy really hadn’t been near anything female for a very long time. If ever! ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to do.’
‘Not me,’ he groaned, leaning his head back against the throne. ‘Oh, God.’
I pressed my lips just to the side of his mouth. ‘Oh yes, of course. God.’
His chest was heaving as if he had just run a marathon, but all power seemed to have left him. I slipped the next button out of its socket. He didn’t move. His hands were rigid on the cheeks of my butt. I kept on unbuttoning, staring up at him, and he looked at my mouth. I ran my tongue over both lips.
