The
Saint Agnes Passion
By Jacqueline Jillinghoff
Suzie poured the tea
down the sink, squirted soap into the pot and filled it with hot water. Wendy
watched her from her runway outside the kitchen.
“The tea was a bad
idea?” she asked.
“She doesn’t want to
drink tea ever again.”
She put the untouched
cup back into the cabinet and the untouched spoon into the drawer.
“What about the
muffin?”
“I left it for her.”
Suzie came over and
worked herself onto Wendy’s lap. Her healthy bare legs hung
over one wheel of the chair. Wendy reached for her face, but Suzie,
anticipating the move, was already ducking her head. Their lips met, their
tongues flashed into one another’s mouths.
“Mmm.
Can you stay?”
“Yeah.
Mom said it’s OK.”
“All
night?”
“We’re off till
Thursday.”
She traced her tongue
along the ridge of Wendy’s ear.
“Want me to eat your
pussy?”
“Oh
God!” Thrilling at the thought, Wendy closed her arms
about Suzie’s waist and rested her head on the girl’s shoulder. “I feel so
selfish.”
“She said it’s OK. She
likes it that you can feel good.”
“You’re like a little
missionary,” Wendy said. She wiggled Suzie’s tit through her top.
“Oh
Christ!”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s fucking Sister
Patrice.”
Suzie bolted from her lap. Wendy scootered behind and peered through the front-door window as the girl held the curtain open. A plump-breasted woman with short red hair, much younger than Wendy had imagined, was pacing on the sidewalk in front of the house. She glanced back at the street, then up at the roof, as though looking for something, somewhere, that could make up her mind for her.
She didn’t look like a
nun. Wearing only a sweatshirt, tight jeans, and battered red tennies, she
looked like what she was — a runaway. A black canvas bag, like a duffel, hung from her shoulder. She was obviously on her
way somewhere.
“Call her in, love,”
Wendy said.
Suzie opened the inner
door.
“Sister!”
she shouted through the screen, in none too welcoming a tone.
Patrice looked back,
startled, but in time she gathered her courage and came up the walk. Once
inside, she stood in the doorway, not daring to put down her bag. The scene
before her unsettled her more than she already was: She hadn’t expected to meet
a disabled woman, or encounter Miss Nguyen in just a tank top and panties. What
kind of mother let her daughter’s friends run around her house practically
naked? It almost made her forget the beam in her own eye.
Kristen’s mother broke
the silence.
“You’re the famous
Sister Patrice?”
“Not a sister anymore,
Mum.”
“You look surprised to
see me.”
“Yes,
frankly. She never mentioned …”
“That
her mother’s in a wheelchair? It seems she has a
lot in her life she needs to forget.”
“Zing,” Miss Nguyen
said.
“How is she?”
“You’ve got fucking
balls—” Miss Nguyen said, but the mother cut her off.
“She hasn’t come out
of her room in three days,” she said. “And she won’t tell me what you did to
her. I can only guess.”
“I’m ready to give
myself over —”
“But you wanted to
tell her you’re sorry first.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“All
right. I shouldn’t let you, but maybe you can get
through to her. Her room is that closed door on the right. You can leave your
bag here.”
Patrice walked through
the living room. She knocked on the closed door. No answer. She looked back at
the mother and the brown girl.
“Go on in,” the mother
said. “She won’t bite.”
Miss Nguyen looked at
her with implacable rage.
Kristen lay facing the
far wall in a fetal position, swaddled in a long white gown. All that was
visible of the girl herself was her tousled hair and the dots of her toes. The
medallions of an English muffin, spread evenly with apricot jam, occupied a
plate on the nightstand. A single bite had been taken out of one of them.
“Kristen?”
The shrouded body
stiffened, a movement almost imperceptible but as sharp as a slap in the face.
Patrice stepped inside and closed the door.
“Darling?”
This time there was no
movement. Patrice sat on the empty side of the bed. She laid a hand on
Kristen’s shoulder, expecting an explosion, but nothing happened. It was like
touching a corpse.
“I came to tell you
I’m leaving. The school, the convent, everything. I’m
going away, I don’t know where. I just came to tell you I’m sorry. I never
meant to hurt you, and it was … it was only my fear and my sorry guilt that
brought you into that … that perversion.”
She heard a whine.
Kristen was trying to say something, but the catch in her throat blocked it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“We could have been
happy.”
“No. I don’t think so.
Not really. But I will never deny you again. I love you, and I will admit that
to everyone, no matter what happens.”
What did
happen, Patrice would remember always as a gift of grace. There was a white
flash, a flutter of linen, and Kristen’s face was in her lap.
“Forgive me, please—”
Patrice said.
“Always,
always, always.”
Kristen kissed her
thighs, her crotch. Dark damp splotches grew in the denim. The force of the
emotion was irresistible, and so was Kristen’s grip as she hauled Patrice onto
her back, pinning her down and dripping tears as she kissed her eyes, her
cheeks, her nose, her lips.
Her hand went up
beneath the sweatshirt.
“No, baby, your
mother—”
“Fuck her.”
Their tongues,
meshing, cut off conversation for the moment — the fullest and yet most
delicate feeling, wet bundles of nerve ends brushing one another, vulnerable
but eager, igniting a flame within that melted Patrice’s pussy and turned her
nipples to steel. She had feared she would burn ever since she was a little
girl, but now that it was happening, she welcomed it.
She tugged at the
gown, but the hem snagged on Kristen’s heels. Kristen sat up, straddling
Patrice’s thighs, and Patrice saw it was a beautiful garment, a Russian
peasant’s blouse with puffed sleeves and embroidered vines at the wrists and
the thin V below the neck. But it was in the way. Kristen, fixing Patrice’s
gaze with a smirk, crossed her arms and gripped her shoulders. Then she
uncrossed her arms, and the shroud floated away. Her young body took the full
light of the afternoon.
Patrice reached for
her little tits, but Kristen backed off, teasing her.
“You first,” she said.
Patrice took off her
sweatshirt in an earthly parody of Kristen’s own divine, crisscross motion.
Kristen dug her hands under her and undid her bra.
“You should never
cover these,” she said when the cups came off. “You have to go topless all the
time.”
“I hear and obey.”
Kristen gently jiggled
Patty’s tits, but she grimaced at the purple spots around her nipples, the dark
reminders of the clamps. Softly, she kissed each bruise.
“I don’t like this,”
she said. “You can’t hurt yourself ever again.”
“May I keep my butt
plug?”
“Oh, all right.”
And they fell together
laughing. Kristen’s loving mouth moved down Patty’s
sides, and over her stomach, and when she reached the tight border of her
jeans, she opened the snap and zipper and yanked hard. Jeans and panties came
down together, and the heavy smell of pussy leapt into the air.
The sneakers presented a final obstacle, but soon, through Kristen’s persistence, they were naked together at last, pressing mouth to mouth, flesh to flesh. Their hands flowed over smooth hollows, backs and buttocks, kneaded the springy dough of young breasts. Each slipped a leg through the other’s crotch, and their hungry cunts began a slow dance on one another’s thighs.
“Uh,” Kristen said.
“Oh,” Patty answered.
At this moment, she would have testified that their flesh dissolved and they passed into one another, like ghosts. But a ghost doesn’t have a drooling pussy, as Kristen did, or a solid leg you can hump.
“Quietly,” Patty
whispered. “Quietly. We don’t want them to hear …”
And it was quiet. They
came silently, but for the first time, together.
Patrice would have
died happily at that moment, the sacrament of reconciliation completed, but
Kristen wasn’t finished. She kissed Patrice’s neck and shoulders, and sucked
hard on one breast — which Patrice now realized were sore from the abuse it had
taken.
“Uh uh,” she said, and
reflexively she pushed at Kristen’s head.
“Sorry,” Kristen
whispered. She worked down, kissing Patrice’s belly, filling her navel with her
tongue. Patrice touched her head again, steering her toward her tangled red
garden, but Kristen skipped over it. Instead, she licked upward, along
Patrice’s thigh, and when she reached the top, she skipped again and licked
down the other side.
“You teasing devil!”
“Poor thing,” Kristen
said. But she could never be mean, not really. In her mercy, she pushed her
face full on into Patrice’s cunt. That blessed tongue flooded the gates of her
hole and cooled the hot coal of her clit.
Her face tingled with
pleasure. She raised a hand to her open mouth.
“Sweet.”
“Muh?” Kristen asked, her mouth full of pussy.
“Yes! Fuck!”
“Shh. Mom will hear
you.”
“Fuck her.”
“I know how to shut
you up.”
And she swung around.
Her pussy hung in Patrice’s sight like a pink host. This is my body. Take and
eat. She accepted it gratefully on her tongue.
And they lay in a
frenzied 69 that canceled all thought. Their fingers dug into one another’s
asses, their mouths worked with growing urgency, and they were no longer of this
world. The earth and all its foulness were gone, and there was only light and
love and the fullness of pleasure.
And they came again,
this time with power.
●●●
There was a soft knock
at the door, and Miss Nguyen, who had no sense of boundaries, poked her head in
without waiting to be told to piss off.
“What’s going on in
here, you two?”
What was going on, at
that moment, was that Patrice had her tongue up Kristen’s asshole. But she
moved fast in her sudden fright. Her knees banged the floor, and she curled up
tight as a wood louse, childishly covering her eyes, as if no one could see her
as long as she couldn’t see anyone else.
“I think they’ve made
up,” she heard Miss Nguyen say.
“Oh, my word,” came
the mother’s voice.
“God!”
Kristen said. “Is there anybody else out there? You want to take pictures?”
“Where’s your friend?”
the mother said.
“She’s hiding behind
the bed,” Miss Nguyen said.
“Stand up back there.
Let’s see you.”
Kristen tapped her on
the back of the head.
“Don’t be shy,” she
said.
Patrice got to her
feet. She stood for inspection — arms at her sides, shoulders back, boobs out. Might as well lead with your best feature. The mother was
sitting just outside the door. She looked Patrice over.
“Very nice,” she said
finally. Patrice couldn’t tell if she was genuinely admiring her or damning her
with sarcasm.
“Don’t be afraid,” the
mother said. “I don’t have any authority anymore where my daughter’s sex life
is concerned.”
She placed a hand on
Miss Nguyen’s hip. How boundless were that girl’s sexual appetites?
Before the intrusion,
Kristen had been buns up, facedown at the foot of the bed, but now she was
sitting on her heels, her hands on her knees. She bounced playfully as she
asked, “Can we keep her, Mom?”
“Sweetie, she’s not a
pet.”
“Yes, she is. She’s my
pet. And she doesn’t have anyplace to go.”
“Is that true?” Wendy
asked.
“I’ll find someplace,
Mum.”
“Nonsense.
You’ll stay with us. At least until you can figure something out.”
“She can take care of
you.”
“I do fine, Sweetie.”
“I will, though,”
Patrice said. “I’ll work for nothing.”
“But with benefits,”
Miss Nguyen put in.
The mother swatted her
behind.
“Behave!” she said.
Then, to her naked daughter: “We’ll talk about it.” She took Miss Nguyen’s
hand. “Come on, dear, let’s go to my room.”
And door closed. Peacefully.
“That’s it?” Patrice
asked.
“Looks like.”
“I can stay?”
“If
you want.”
“With
you? In your mother’s house?”
“You gonna ask
questions, or you gonna kiss my butt some more?”
Kristen went down on
her forearms again, offering up her bottom. Her asshole beckoned like a reverse
star — a point of dark light in a white sky. Patrice resumed her station on the
bed, subordinate yet undeniably privileged, and dipped her tongue in the cool
recess.
She could never have
imagined this place, though, really, she had dreamed of it her whole life. It
was the very reason she had taken the veil. In hours of despair, she had
doubted its existence, but she saw now, making love to Kristen’s ass, that her
doubts had been foolish, because after all her suffering, she had made it. She
was here.
In
Heaven.
The End
© 2016 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff