by Kim Knight
The heights to which I was able to take them were legendary in the Convent. So much so that following their initiation by myself, many of the sisters never again found themselves able to attain the same pinnacle of fulfilment to which I drove them at their induction ceremony. Time and again they begged the Prioress to allow them to taste my cutting bite once again, only to be told that their initial time with me was a holy-ordained foretaste of the delights that await them in Heaven if they remain true to their vows.
To experience such gratification again the sisters were required to pledge their hearts, souls and physical bodies to the ‘One True God’. I hardly need to add that this solemn promise of course included the nuns’ spiritual brothers, the monks of the priory. Mortal men who are His flesh and blood representatives here on Earth. And this they always did. Every last one of them, in the hope that I would once again lead them along the road to sexual paradise. The spiritual paradise promised by The Almighty himself faded into mere inconsequence when they recalled the heavenly journey on which I conducted them. Once I had converted them to believe in my own doctrine, that the gaining of divine recognition, as well as the pleasure of immeasurably mind-bending and body-racking orgasms is attainable only through pain, they lived for nothing else.
How easy it was for me. How absolutely impossible it was for them. Those unworldly women, noviciates and nuns alike, found themselves completely unable to deny my power and authority. They had little concept of anything that existed beyond the realms of their overheated imaginations. Virtually imprisoned in the convent, they were confined there, ignorant and shackled by religion. Oft times it was because they had imagined themselves called thither by His voice, but more often than not it was upon the wishes of parents eager to rid themselves of unwanted daughters. Daughters who did nothing but bleed their households of what little resources they had. So by one means or another those unfortunate souls sought succour behind the walls of the convent. Marriage to God was their salvation, their cocoon from the harsh realities of the outside world that were so luridly described to them by the Abbot and the Prioress.
The outside world?
What was that? They knew not. But me, before I was brought to that place I had slashed, beaten and scourged my way through all the forbidden pleasures of the flesh so expressly forbidden by the scriptures. Scriptures totally ignored by both the nuns of the convent in which I found myself and the monks of their associated monastery.
As I recall those halcyon days of yore, I cannot give any real account of the number of times I had found myself almost drowning in the juices of love, buried up to the hilt in a spasming, gripping cunt. Suffice to say it is many times in excess of anything even the most active of cocks can normally expect to experience. So many were the grateful, lusting maids that I drove to a flooding, convulsing climax that I gained a notoriety that eventually saw me welcomed into the households of a multitude of the great and good.
As tales of my indisputable prowess filtered continually down and then back up through the structured social layers of noblemen, gentry, freemen and serfs, sexually denied or mistreated men of every rank utilised my services to bring haughty wives, concubines and daughters to heel. And in doing so I came to learn that the fables regarding their cosseted ladies that great knights and patricians seek to impress upon their underlings are completely without foundation. The bodies of aristocratic females are no more sweet, tender or desirable than those of a well-scrubbed peasant girl, a tavern wench or guttersnipe whore. In truth, upon reminiscing I find that a buxom well-fucked tart, who makes her daily bread through the selling of her cunt, arse, mouth and tits, will almost always provide infinitely greater satisfaction to a lust-driven hard and throbbing cock than any of those interbred sexless products of formally-arranged marriages.
Since the earliest of my days here in the land of Albion, introducing both masters and slaves to the intricacies of sexual dominance has been my calling. Throughout the seemingly endless spunk-filled years, I have been called upon by my masters to thrash and then invade not only the cunts of maidens of their own paramountcy but also those of innocent girls of low-born status. Maidens plucked from villages or fields without fear of retribution, their lord’s ‘Droit de Seigneur’ being not open to challenge.
Many of the younger nobles were completely inexperienced and knew nothing of sex; of the gushingly drinkable, tongue-delighting musky juices that flood from a raging, orgasming vagina. But my experience is without parallel and after a period of association with me, every single one of them would tell you without fear of contradiction that maids from the gutter fuck, suck, smell better and generally provide more pleasure than a titled lady could ever contemplate. Which is why for a bollock-bursting and thoroughly satisfying fuck, they are forever the choice of high-born men.
As dutiful subjects of the Crown and loyal servants of your own lord, what a sad duty it is of mine to enlighten you to facts that may cause you to doubt the veracity of your betters. They do not wed for love, or even lust. Noblemen marry Noblewomen because it is their expected duty. And that duty is to sire a legitimate heir, born of the aristocracy, to carry forward their names and titles. An heir who will inherit their estates and chattels, its sire usually engaging in only the most perfunctory sexual congress in order to accomplish this feat. In truth as the result of centuries of interbreeding, aristocratic females are more often than not extremely plain in appearance, something that does little to tempt a lusty cock into fucking them for pleasure and satisfaction.
And more pleasure and satisfaction have I been witness to than it would be wise to admit. The rock hard shafts of revered Knights, dribbling with the liquor that comes before the actual penetration of an eager dripping cunt, is a sight that is not uncommon to me. And in truth these ‘Defenders of The Faith’ are rarely content to make use of only one maiden at a time. More often than not, following a sound thrashing from myself to prepare the girls properly for the favour of being allowed to sexually service their masters, these warriors will fuck and sodomise two, three or even more lusty cocksuckers. And when the fucking is over, with myself close at hand, it is often a knight’s delight to sit with a goblet of wine held to his lips, observing the receptacle of his newly planted seed standing with her skirts held high and her legs spread wide, allowing the combined juices of the cock and the cunt to trickle from the lips of her still wide-open and well-filled hole. Sticky globules of cloudy-white sap dripping from a wench’s scabbard and falling either to the ground or into the eager open mouth of one of her naked prostrate acolyte companions is an experience so common that I really am no longer able to pay it any great attention.
Spunk.
Cunts.
Cocks.
I love those words. And I love to see them written down, which is a rare occurrence as the few men who have the knowledge of writing are usually holy men, monks and the like. But nevertheless, as unbelievable as it would seem, there in the Prioress’ private rooms I saw the most unusual of books. A real manuscript written in Latin by an educated hand not afraid of the words of condemnation uttered by the lackies of Rome. This book told of the sight of a withdrawn cock, at the moment of ejaculation, spurting a fountain of foaming white sperm high into the air. Of this sperm saturating both the fucker and the fucked with a shower of the glorious elixir of life. It tells of how that elixir, the liquor a free man manufactures, is stored in his bollocks until it is wrenched out as he reaches the climax of his lovemaking. That is where I learned that unless she is desperate to find herself in child, a man’s spurting spunk is ambrosia women would rather have poured into their mouths than their cunts. To taste, to savour and to swallow, that is their desire.
And while they are often not backward in confessing to their masters that a spurting, throbbing cock stuffed deep into their mouths is a dream being fulfilled, there is another more common desire that women find great difficulty in expressing.
And that
desire is for pain.
Exquisite nerve-tingling, cunt-paralysing pain. The forbidden pleasure. The nipple-hardening, brain-softening ecstasy that results from the unbridled correction administered by their masters; aided more often than not by others of my kind. We are the keys that open the portals into paradise, the joy bringers who meld desire, suffering and bliss into one glorious whole and offer enlightenment to all womankind. To ask is to receive. No true man would stay his hand and deny a begging maid a thorough thrashing, if that is what she needs to propel her into a state of rapture.
And that is exactly the service that I was performing for Sister Cecelia, although it would be a falsehood to claim that it was she who had actually called for the chastisement. No, that had been the Prioress. It seems that the Abbot was constantly complaining that although she had been installed in the convent for many a month, Sister Cecelia had not as yet made her cunt or arse available to him or his congregation of monks. In fact he had not even so much as cupped her breasts or felt his hot throbbing rod slipping between her cool wet lips into her mouth. Accompanying him into her presence one day, I was privy to their conversation. The Abbot was displeased, that much even I could discern.
“Young blood, that is what I need. A fresh unspoilt maid such as Cecelia skewered on the end of my prong. My mouth suckling her newly-ripe nipples as I slide in and out of her tender body. The smell of her cunt. The taste of it too. Her tongue roving over my shaft. Her pale white fingers ringing my bell-end, wanking me to a spurting climax. God’s teeth woman, these things I need, nay I demand. As Father of this community they are my right and it is your duty to provide them.”
The Abbot’s words were filled with anger, his lust overwhelming his vow of celibacy, as it had done countless times before. But the Prioress’ reply was not all that forthright. I could tell that she was desperately seeking some way out. Some way of not allowing Cecelia’s flesh to be the feast to satisfy his carnal hunger.
“The girl has not been with us all that long and you have all the others of my flock available for your use.”
The Prioress’ words were earnest if not altogether believable.
“And I have used them all time and time again until now most of them no longer rouse the serpent beneath my cassock. Even splayed over the altar, with their legs wide and holes open, many are the times that my rod has not filled with iron enough for me to enter them. But Cecelia, I could fuck her in an instant.”
The Abbot’s reply however was truthfully forthright. But still the Prioress seemed hesitant to grant his demands.
“My Lord Abbot, she is the youngest of our noviciates and not yet ready to be introduced to the beast that hangs between your thighs. I am sure that with more preparation from myself she will in time reach that point. But she is not there yet and knows nothing of sex. That knowledge I must impart to her. I have to teach her through love and gentle persuasion that her sex hole and her arse hole are the keys to eternal bliss and salvation.”
It was then that the light began to dawn on me. It was not as if I had not seen the signs. The Prioress wanted to keep Cecelia solely for herself! And if I had made that deduction, then the Abbot most certainly had too. But he did not know as I did, that Sister Cecelia was not as untouched and pure as the Prioress was implying. With some assistance from me she had been sampling the young nun’s sexual delights for quite some time.
Sometimes it had been in Cecelia’s stark, sparsely furnished cell. At other times in the Prioress’ more opulent quarters and more than once out in the open fields or in the orchard. With her coarse robe pulled up above her waist, I had slashed into Sister Cecelia’s naked buttocks or stung her tits and cunt until she was gushing love juice and well prepared for the Prioress’ attentions.
And the Prioress was nothing if not inventive in her use of the girl. The smaller of the ornate candlesticks were often pushed deep into her most private holes; substitutes for the smooth polished wooden dildos the nuns more usually used on each other. One of her favourite sex games was to lay Cecelia down and insert the candle holder into her tight, dripping cunt and then, squatting astride her, ram the base of the candlestick into her own much slacker hole. Frantically rubbing her erect love kernel, she would bounce up and down, writhing and moaning as she drove herself to a most unholy climax, shrieking out her thanks to the lord when a shuddering orgasm finally raged over her.
Once or twice Cecelia herself was reduced to what was in effect a squirming, palpitating piece of sexual wreckage, as to her what were unfathomable brain-melting sensations, raged within her innocent body and left her convulsing in ecstasy. The Prioress did not seem to be overly concerned on those occasions. The novice’s fulfilment was none of her concern after all. So although she made no effort to ensure that Cecelia gained any satisfaction from their carnal conjunctions, if the girl did actually find some sort of fulfilment, then the Prioress thought that that would help to bind Cecelia to her.
Cecelia’s tongue was also something the Prioress had made great use of, whether ordering her to suck the great projectile nuggets that sprouted from her huge udders or making her lap the sagging, swimming sex lips that dangled from her vulva. The Prioress’ instructions were never anything less than straight to the point.
“Get that tongue in further girl, right up to the root! Make me feel it wriggling deep inside me. Pleasure me well if you wish for my indulgence and protection.”
And Sister Cecelia always obeyed such orders without question. After all this woman was the holy Mother Superior and would never require her to do anything that was unholy in the eyes of God.
If the Abbot had been privy to that secret knowledge then I am certain that his rage would have known no bounds. As it was there was menace in his voice as he continued his angry harassment of the Prioress.
“The girl is over the age of consent, you cannot deny that.”
Furious at the Prioress’ attempts to deter him from his quest to fuck and thrash Cecelia, the Abbot’s angry, accusing words cut her to the core. I could sense the conflict raging within her. She had been savouring the taste of Sister Cecelia’s cunt, and had herself been on the receiving end of her searching tongue and enjoying all manner of sexual delights almost from the moment that she entered the convent. But that was something that, try as she may, the Prioress would not be able to keep secret forever. So eventually, stung by the Abbot’s persistent disgruntled carping, she decided that the time had come for me to introduce Cecelia to the ultimate fulfilment that her continuing virginity denied her.
After all, that was my only reason for being in the convent. Cecelia was the youngest daughter of a great lord, and as such had been very guardedly kept a virgin until she became of an age when she could be consigned to the care of the Sisters of Mercy; that being her father’s bound duty to the crown and the holy Church of Rome. The lord knew full well that his offspring was being delivered into a life of sexual slavery, but that was the way of the world. And being a prolific and enthusiastic wielder of his child maker, he had daughters to spare. One given over to the debased usage of the monks was neither here nor there. And if it ensured the continued absolution of his many sins, then the loss of a hardly-noticed female product of his loins was a small price to pay.
And that absolution had been guaranteed to him by the Abbot, provided that Cecelia provided good service to the cocks of himself and his hooded underlings. Although of course he made no admission of the fact, the lord was not entirely certain that she would provide the required satisfaction. And although I was not particularly happy with the situation, that was the reason that when he had her delivered to the convent I was sent along with her. I had given him many years of exemplary service and he trusted me beyond question. I was to be the enforcer. The rod that bent her to her new master’s will. If she proved not to be fully pliant and did not live up to the Abbot’s expectations, then I was to do what I do best - thrash her into willing
submission.
And so the scene was set. The witnesses were assembled in the chapel according to tradition, the monks on one side of the aisle and the sisters on the other. There was no moon in the pitch blackness of the overcast sky of night and except for intermittent flashes of forked lightning, not the faintest ray of light filtered through the stained glass of the windows to offer even the slightest natural illumination. The wild wind battered the thick stone walls of the chapel and thunder the like of which I had never experienced before, shook the building to its foundations. The atmosphere was eerily tense and expectant and the air lay heavy and thick with the sooty smoke of the ceremonial candles; their flickering yellow glow fighting a losing battle with the gloom that crept into every corner.
Standing by the altar, with me once again by his side, the Abbot impatiently awaited Sister Cecelia’s arrival.
“God’s teeth,” I heard him mutter. “Am I to be kept waiting ‘til doomsday. Where is that confounded woman?”
The Prioress, for it was she to whom he was referring, entered the chapel at that very moment. A heavy silver cross was held high in her left hand and a leash of plaited bull hide clasped tightly in her right. Attached to the other end of the leash was a wide leather collar, studded with iron spikes and that collar was clamped tightly around the pure white skin of Sister Cecelia’s neck.
A Sister Cecelia whom I had never dreamt could have existed.
Towed by the leash, her hair brushed and falling loose, her lips coloured red and with her wrists manacled behind her back, she followed several paces behind the Prioress as she made her way towards the altar and the Abbot.
And what a sight she was. Prepared with the greatest of care and attention especially for this momentous occasion by the Prioress herself, the shapeless nun’s habit had been ripped from her back, revealing the gleaming, oiled and sweet-scented body of an angel. Stripped naked, her breasts stood full and proud, with broad hazelnut areola encircling enormous nipples of mouth-watering perfection. Perhaps it was the biting cold teasing them into erection, but be that as it may, those nipples were the most perfect in Christendom. Her waist was slender, her hips curved and she had an arse that could make a man weep for the want of sinking his weapon into it. Loins, long and slender, led a watcher’s gaze to the succulent mound of her sex that lay between them. It can be justly said that there was not a single human being in the chapel whose eye fell upon her, male or female, whose pulse did not grow faster as carnal desire swept through his or her lusting body.
