‘Do you want to study them more closely? Touch them, perhaps?’
‘No!’ I blurted. My outcry echoed in the vaulted ceiling, mocking my deepest fears. Covered again in gooseflesh, I squirmed on the pew, my bare skin protesting against the polished walnut. My pulse was pounding, and I felt so ready to run from this room my shins twitched. And yet, when I saw that Sybil’s eyes were fixed on mine — that she gazed at me over Elvira’s ebony curls, with a longing I knew so well — the heat flared inside me.
‘She’s a wondrous creature, is she not?’ the friar whispered. ‘Forged in the Devil’s own fire, it would seem, expressly to lead us into temptations beyond our wildest fantasies. I was so taken with her, she inspired my first work in wax the day after she arrived.’
Recalling the way this man watched from the cottage doorway as Sybil and I pleasured each other, his revelation didn’t surprise me. ‘Does she know about this…doll?’
‘Of course not. And I think you realise why no one else does, either.’
I could only nod, mutely agreeing not to reveal Brother Christy’s secret. Since she didn’t feel the same level of affection for him, Sybil would be curious — and defiant — enough to sneak down here, to suffer Martin Crowley’s horrible fate. Having her demise on my conscience would be more than I could bear, so I kept gazing at her lush breasts and the flush of arousal on her flawless face — admiring the perfection of the art so I wouldn’t think about the twisted whims of the artist. As the wetness trickled between my legs, I swore Sybil winked at me.
‘Sit here, if you wish, or you may look around. I’ve something else to show you.’
Brother Christy passed between the inert figures to the crimson curtain, which — like the one upstairs — concealed a door. He stepped through it, leaving me alone in this airless room inhabited by three-dimensional optical illusions. Wondering if I’d again been influenced by opium, I dared myself to stand up and touch Elvira’s tan tunic.
It was as real as the one Mrs Goodin had snatched from the grass earlier.
Bolder now, I slowly circled the altar to study the monk’s handiwork. Careful to remain at a distance, lest Sybil or Ahmad playfully grab for my breasts, I admired their skin tones, the skilfully arranged wigs, the facial features that captured them exactly as I knew them. I swore I could smell Sybil’s wet sex. Ahmad’s erection seemed to quiver, with a bubble of translucent fluid oozing from its tip. His cock ring glimmered in the dusky light, and the ruby in his nose caught the glow from the sconces as his piercing obsidian eyes tried to mesmerise me.
I turned quickly, thinking Elvira had shifted, but it was the rustling of the crimson curtain as Brother Christy returned. ‘Now that you’ve had a chance to pass judgment on my earlier works, what do you think of this fine specimen?’
My hand flew to my mouth. He was rolling in a replica of Hyde Fortune.
At that moment I wanted Hyde’s company so badly, a sob escaped me. This warned me of my distraught state, and of how vulnerable I was to whatever else the apple-cheeked monk had in mind, so I forced myself to study this life-sized image. Not only had Brother Christy captured the shadow of Hyde’s jaw and the dimple near his chin, but he’d mussed the thick, sandy hair just enough to correlate with the handsome mortician’s expression when he was ready to climax.
‘I could swear he has a suit like that,’ I managed, fighting to stay afloat in these emotion-charged waters.
The monk smiled slyly. ‘They say clothes make the man, but I contend that our natural endowments are what make us memorable.’
With that, he unfastened the pants to reveal an erection so realistic I would’ve recognised it in the dark. The monk’s chuckle came from all corners of the mock sanctuary as he let the trousers drop, watching my reaction. ‘Feel free to indulge yourself, Mary Grace. I know how you miss him between his visits.’
Again I clapped my hand to my mouth, more frightened than I’d ever felt in my life, yet vibrantly aroused. Hyde might as well have been standing before me, imploring me to spread my legs or suck him. My sex ached with the need to know whether that cock of wax would fill me like the real one, but the way Christy caressed it — and himself — warned me not to step any closer.
‘My sculpture’s having the desired effect,’ he murmured, slipping a hand through a vent in his tunic seam. ‘It’s one thing to react to my own art, but much more gratifying to see a beautiful woman respond so copiously, despite her knowledge that he’s only a waxwork.’
Brother Christy’s gaze remained at the apex of my legs. ‘Would you please catch that honey dribbling down your leg, Mary Grace? You’ll be doing us both a favour. The sooner we satisfy ourselves, the sooner we move on to the vaults.’
His manipulation stung, after I’d trusted him so long, but I didn’t think he’d come after that honey himself: he’d had plenty of chances, yet allowed others to do the honours. As my fingers inched down to catch the slickness escaping from my slit, however, I knew the culmination I craved wouldn’t come by my own hand.
My companion — as always — seemed to know what I was thinking. Brother Christy tipped the mannequin of Hyde backwards, just enough to level it horizontally, and then laid it carefully on the floor. Had I walked in at that moment, I would’ve assumed my lover was lying in wait, randy and ready for me. The cock rising proudly in the air seemed to quiver as I stared at it. It was my own excitement causing this illusion, no doubt, but I was too agitated to care.
‘Straddle him, Mary Grace. Close your eyes and fuck him as though the two of you were alone.’
That was his price: Brother Christy wanted to watch me come, but this time he demanded a private showing. If I was to have the fabrics he’d baited me with, I would play his game and keep his secrets — hopefully before Father Luc and Mrs Goodin could plan another humiliating penance.
I lowered myself over the image of Hyde Fortune, reaching between my thighs for the shaft of wax. Undulating above it until its tip teased at my swollen folds, I circled my hole before testing it on my clit. Perhaps because the wax absorbed my own heat, it felt like the chocolate dildo Sybil’s kitchen crew had slipped inside me — ridged, veined, and satisfyingly solid. With a sigh, I impaled myself and began to pump. Closing my eyes would allow me to pretend it was Hyde beneath me, lying very still at my command, yet I fed my fascination by gazing into that familiar face.
Brother Christy watched intently, following my movements up and down the cock he’d created. When he again slipped behind the crimson curtain, I assumed he wanted his own private release — so I humped faster, to please myself rather than putting on a show. Sitting higher, I threw my head back and thrust out my breasts as I angled myself to better advantage. My inner tensions had risen near the breaking point since I’d entered the monk’s secret chambers, and I was eager for release. My body tightened until that familiar frenzy rose within me, breaking like waves before a cataclysmic storm.
Brother Christy returned as I was on the verge of screaming, and when I saw what he brought with him, my cries rang louder. He smiled, looking so very childlike and proud of another waxwork he’d made — of me.
His woman of wax wore the ivory-and-cream striped dress Hyde gave me, and her auburn waves had worked loose from the knot at her crown. She was kneeling, with her eyes closed and her lips forming an O. Christy raised the front of his tunic. He was facing away from me, towards the seated figure of Father Luc, but I knew exactly what he was going to do.
Once again I was forced to recall when Mrs Goodin threw open the carriage door to catch me in that very position, but I was beyond humiliation: I squirmed against the false cock until release racked my body. Unable to stop, my hips kept driving against the shaft, finding that sweet, heated spot that sent ripples up from deep inside me for delicious minutes on end. Relieved, yet somewhat aghast at what I’d just done, I began to dismount the man so much like Hyde — until a rustling of the crimson curtain froze me in place.
Mrs Goodin stepped into the chancel, her eye
s on Brother Christy. The monk was now thrusting madly into the mouth of my counterpart, perhaps pretending Father Luc watched while he slid between my lips. He was apparently so caught up in his pleasure he didn’t realise who had joined us, while I hoped to avoid detection by lying flat upon the mannequin of Hyde, on the opposite side of the altar. Through the loose weave of the altar cloth I could see Mrs Goodin, however, and I knew the friar she approached in silence would soon feel her wrath.
But the dour housekeeper unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Then she stepped away from the puddle of stiff fabric, wearing only dark stockings held up by a black garter belt, which framed a bush of bristling jet hair. Without interrupting the humping monk, she threw aside the folds of Father Luc’s cassock to reveal a wax erection beyond all possible human proportions. She was fingering her slit, feverishly spreading her wetness as she watched Brother Christy.
Backing towards the abbot’s seated figure, Hortense straddled his lap to thrust herself upon his mammoth shaft. With a feral growl, she moved up and back, up and back, with the same speed and force of the monk a few feet in front of her. Now that I knew Father Luc’s housekeeper was no stranger to this room, and was too engrossed in her own satisfaction to notice me, I slipped two fingers between my quivering folds. A delicious sense of irony spurred me on: while the two paragons of the monastery brought themselves to climax, I had caught them in the act — together!
The laundress was about to lose all her starch, judging from the dark sparkle in her eyes. As she gazed at Brother Christy, her nostrils flaring, she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. ‘Don’t you dare pump your juice into that redheaded hussy, Christopher Goodin!’ she snarled. ‘Get over here where you belong. Prove yourself more a man than the abbot here.’
Brother Christy acknowledged her command with a desperate groan. As he yanked himself from the throat of the Mary Grace mannequin, Hortense removed her uniform blouse. She sucked in her breath to unhook her corset in one practised motion, freeing a pair of full, pendulous breasts. The man she’d summoned caught them in his hands, suckling them eagerly, as though he’d been deprived of human contact for days.
I could only stare: if I’d understood correctly, Brother Christy was the Mr Goodin we’d all wondered about and felt so sorry for. There was more to this story than I dared speculate over, but the housekeeper’s enraptured face — and the hungry way the monk serviced her — told me these secret encounters occurred more often than anyone could guess. As I imagined telling Sybil about this, I doubted she’d believe me.
My fingers ventured farther up my cunt. I gazed blatantly through the altar cloth, goaded on by fear of discovery as well as this revelation of a most unusual couple. Hortense still writhed against the abbot’s prick, appearing very near the point of no return, while Brother Christy’s hips flexed uncontrollably beneath his tunic. The squelching of her wetness and their desperate moans echoed in the miniature chapel, driving me towards another climax as I spied upon them. Frustrated with the limitations of my fingers, I cautiously eased back on to the mannequin.
Hortense cried out, emitting a string of epithets no proper lady would utter in a church. Just the thought of her rutting against Father Luc sent my hips into a frenzy against Hyde’s wax erection, and it was all I could do not to thrash about so loudly she’d hear me from the other side of the altar.
Her gratification waned quickly, however. ‘Well, if you’re going to take so damn long,’ she muttered, ‘you’ll have to finish with Elvira. A peculiar bird like her is all you deserve, if —’
‘No, please,’ Brother Christy pleaded. ‘I’m so close, so very —’
‘Tell your troubles to Jesus. Now get your sorry self over here.’
Mrs Goodin strode to the wax model of Elvira and whipped the brown tunic up over its backside. This brought her so close I could’ve touched her sturdy black shoes, but instead I held my breath, trying not to writhe. Hortense stood like a teacher chastising a tardy student, holding the robe up with one hand while beckoning to Brother Christy with the other.
‘Finish what you’ve started,’ she ordered. ‘Gawk at Sybil like the dribbling nitwit you are — like you do every time you see her — and blast away at Elvira here. It’s the best you’re going to get, Mr Goodin. You know my rules.’
Brother Christy looked desperate for release, and when he turned to obey her, I caught sight of his privates. He was hung like a proverbial horse, sporting a thick, blunt pecker that jutted ahead of him by several inches. With a groan, he shoved himself up the mannequin’s hole, pumping so hard the altar rocked noisily. From where I lay atop Hyde’s waxwork, I marvelled at the way the friar’s ponderous balls slapped against Elvira’s backside as he put forth a Herculean effort to release himself.
It occurred to me then that the sculptor had erred: where his other work was uncannily accurate, he had fashioned Elvira with a pussy, complete with a neatly trimmed bush that formed a triangle. But I didn’t have time to gloat over my superior knowledge of the kitchen assistant’s anatomy: Mrs Goodin, never content to let well enough alone, was giving more orders.
‘Ram it into her,’ the housekeeper muttered. ‘Feast your eyes on those tits Sybil thrusts at everyone, like the slut she is, and dream your way into her tight, wet pussy. You think you’re in love with Mary Grace — and the two of them make a pretty pair — but it’s Sybil you’ve always wanted to fuck, isn’t it?’
The monk moaned, writhing frantically against Elvira’s waxen buttocks.
‘Answer me so I can understand you, Christopher.’
‘Yes! Yes, I want her!’
‘Then why don’t you take her? She puts out for everyone else.’
Brother Christy stiffened, reaching a new plateau of stimulation. ‘Because I belong to you, dear Hortense,’ he rasped.
‘That’s right,’ she replied, and to emphasise her point she slapped his quivering arse. ‘And why else don’t you fuck her, little man? You’ve lusted after her for years.’
‘Because…because…’
The monk appeared on the verge of a cataclysmic orgasm, and it took all my strength not to thrash noisily against the shaft rammed inside me. I had a clear view of his thrusting into Elvira’s cunt, and the bulging veins of his cock, and the reddened testicles that appeared ready to explode, which fed my own excitement. My juice was puddling in the hollow of Hyde’s abdomen, and I felt ready to scream with my climax.
‘Don’t you dare come before you answer me! You know the consequences.’
His eyes clenched shut and he rocked back with the effort of withholding release. ‘I don’t…fuck her because…she’ll see your name tattooed on my cock…and laugh at me!’
His last agonised phrase echoed in the vaulted chamber as the spasms broke over him. Humping like a man possessed, Brother Christy squirted streams of thick, pungent cream into the mannequin’s slit. It ran down the white thighs and splattered against the altar, some of it landing on my face. My pussy clenched around the warm cock, and I gave in to the shudders as quietly as I could, hoping the monk’s outcries covered my own.
For what seemed an eternity, the man beside me convulsed like a tortured soul. It was probably best that he hadn’t approached Sybil — or anyone else — because once his climax finally broke loose, it seemed more torrential than a normal partner could withstand. I didn’t know the circumstances of his tattoo, but Hortense had certainly left her mark in ways that guaranteed her husband’s fidelity.
As his climax subsided, Mrs Goodin dressed. All signs of her own passion had vanished, and putting on her corset brought back her inflexible disposition. ‘You can thank me for this later,’ she muttered as she stepped into her black skirt. ‘Now mop up this mess! If I catch so much as a whiff of sex on these people or their clothing, you know exactly where I’ll be using my scrub brush!’
‘Yes, darling,’ Brother Christy sighed, still catching his breath.
‘I expect you to carry on as always,’ she continued, ‘s
o that no one suspects I’m even remotely connected to such a useless booby of a husband.’
‘Quite right,’ he rasped, brushing his hair from his sweaty brow. ‘Why would any woman tolerate a man who prefers buggering his own waxworks? It’s a waste of your lovely cunt and my equipment, as well, Hortense. I’m a lucky man that you’ll even cast eyes upon me.’
‘That you are. But you’re also a fool, Mr Goodin.’
The monk’s body jerked as though she’d swatted his butt again. ‘What have I done now? If you ever want me inside you, you only have to —’
‘I want nothing of the sort!’
My mouth went dry as I watched her through the woven parament. Mrs Goodin was gloating as she fastened the button at her starched collar, gazing steadily at Brother Christy’s feet…and beyond them. ‘You should’ve known better than to bring Miss Michaels among your cherished friends. Your misplaced affection has now compromised you both! I’ll be taking her upstairs for correction, so the two of you can contemplate the error of your ways.’
Brother Christy sucked air with the same terror that struck my heart. ‘But I had offered her fabrics from —’
‘Idiot! Do you really think she can keep these secrets to herself?’ the housekeeper hissed. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come down here looking for you, after what I witnessed in the grove?’
The staccato of her heels on the hard floor sounded like the driving of nails into my own coffin. I glared up at her as defiantly as I could, but she had the advantage and she knew it.
‘Get up, you shameless whore!’ she barked. ‘Apparently my first cleansing didn’t go deep enough! Father Luc has long suspected your subversive behaviour, and I can now confirm it — and bring about your just reward!’
Faster than I knew what was happening, the housekeeper hooked her hands under my armpits. I yelped, scrambling to get my feet beneath me, tripping over the life-sized form with its perennial erection. ‘Please! I won’t breathe a word about —’
‘No, you won’t,’ the waspish woman assured me, ‘because where I’m going to hide you, you’ll have no contact with anyone until time for the rites.’
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