A knot of women, who I imagined to be members of some religious Order, haunted the local Church. About six of them, sometimes more and sometimes fewer, came into the Church on Sundays wearing black habits, hanging around in the nave with the rest of us, or sitting chatting together in the side chapel. Occasionally they also came into the Church on weekday evenings, to socialise. They had spent time, an hour at least before each visit, applying make up and perfume. They were indeed a feminine and beautiful group of women. There had been a convent nearby until it finally closed in the late 1920s, and the women used its building as apartments while living pretty much normal lives for the rest of the week. I was sure I had seen some of the women riding buses, walking into office buildings or shopping in supermarkets, wearing normal clothing. I was equally sure that these women did not get out of bed at six in the morning to pray, nor eat a deliberately monotonous and tasteless diet, but I had no idea what sort of Order, if any, they belonged to.

“Can we wear shorts and sit like this?” Timmy, my eight year old younger son, giggled and spread his thighs wide, showing the crotch of his pink pajama bottoms. This was one of the occasions when I regretted not taking the advice of the young intern at my office who thought I should keep the boys bottomless in the house.
“Wear the green micro-shorts if you want,” I said. I was sure the nuns would prefer the shorts.
Timmy laughed. “Hey, they’ll stare at me.”
“The old one stares at you all the time even if you sit with your legs together,” put in Greg.
“What are you going to wear, Greg?” I asked him. He would probably wear shorts and girls’ panties too.

They may have vowed chastity — poverty would have been unthinkable to anyone who owned one of the convent apartments, which were worth fortunes — but the nuns seemed constantly to look over the congregation for talent. They seemed drawn mainly to young men, especially single young men with fancy cars, but when they thought no-one was looking, they drooled over little boys. Greg, lean, strong, clear skinned brunet with intense brown eyes, quiet and thoughtful, was the object of many wide eyed stares, but little Timmy, blond with turquoise eyes, chubby, talkative, constantly in motion and laughing about whatever came into his head, attracted their attention too, because he was fun to be with, cute, sexy, and brother of the desirable Greg. The nuns talked in whispers and kept out of earshot but we could tell they were talking about the boys.

“Put clean diapers on while I clear up,” I said.
“Do we have to wear diapers?” asked Timmy, who usually enjoyed wearing them.
“No, if you can stop yourself having an accident for an hour and a half,” I said. I knew that they couldn’t hold on for anything like an hour and a half but it was fun to watch them straining to keep their pants dry. “You can wear girls’ panties if you want.”

Timmy had in his wardrobe a pile of twenty or so pairs of girls’ panties, some very ordinary day wear and others chosen for Christmas and birthday from Ann Summers or Rigby and Peller or Figleaves. Greg had fewer girl’s panties but still some immensely revealing, suggestive and sexy pairs. All Greg’s sexy panties had been pissed in and washed many times.

Halfway through clearing up the breakfast things, I realised that there was a way to get into conversation with ‘the old one’ without disrupting the service. In the drawer I had a valentine’s card which I had bought in February but thought better of sending. There was a simple pink heart on the front. I scribbled in the card and put it into my handbag.

Today in the Church there were three nuns and maybe thirty others.

‘The old one’ might have been fifty. As soon as we came into the Church, we noticed her, standing with two of the younger women. She had a gentle face marked with experience lines and full of romance. She was wearing a habit with a wide leather belt around her waist, showing off her enviably slim but busty figure. When she looked at you, you could tell instantly that she had more on her mind than the word of God. I noticed her rubbing her bottom like a naughty child after a paddling, maybe to relieve the sting of a spanking, or more likely to draw the eyes of men and boys to the firm curves of her body. I imagined the Mother Superior giving her a hiding after she confessed to having naughty thoughts about little boys with erections.

Timmy was wearing a yellow tee and loose green micro-shorts. Greg’s shorts were a vivid pink. Both boys showed long, bare arms and hairless, straight legs. I was wearing a blue blouse and a short floral pleated skirt. We took seats at the back of the nave, Timmy in the middle, with Greg on his right and me on his left. ‘The old one’ was standing with two younger nuns, talking and holding hands with one of the friends. Seeing us, she took leave of her friends and wandered over to stand near us. She did not say anything to us, just stood looking. Now or never, I thought, and I took the valentine card from my handbag and pressed it into her hand. She lifted the card and read it.

The card read, The boys love you.

She read it and for a moment she thought about it. Then she looked down at me and said, “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m Jenny, this is Timmy and that’s Greg.”
“I’m sister Aida Marie,” she said in a Scottish Western Isles accent. A girl all the way from the Gaidhealtacht, no less. Unnecessarily she put one foot onto the seat of the wooden chair that I was using and turned her hips, legs spread, so the the boys could see her upper thighs and a flash of her panties. “Thank you for the card, boys,” she said, “I love you too. I’ll keep your card for ever. When you’re older you can come to the convent and see it framed on my wall.”
“You don’t have to wait until they’re older,” I said.
Sister Aida Marie understood immediately. She reached over to Timmy and stroked his tummy through his shorts, an inch or so away from his penis. She was rewarded by a tentpole erection. “You’re a very sweet and loving boy,” she said, feigning surprise and delight, “I’d like to see more of that,” she purred to him.
“I love your perfume,” said Timmy.
“Come with me and I’ll let you smell more of it,” she offered, looking at me for permission and allowing her hand to tease Timmy a little further. She ran her middle finger lightly along the cock, whose position was now very easily seen, and then began lifting the legs of the micro-shorts.
“Go ahead,” I agreed.
“Would you mind if sister Violet came with us? She’s the blonde. You saw me talking to her. Just to make sure…”
“Of course. Tim’d love that. She is lovely.”
“In that case, how would you feel about sister Vicenza tagging along?”
“Of course. Why don’t you take Greg with you too?”
“Jennie, I’ve been admiring him. What a beautiful child he is. Do you think you might allow us to…”
“I’d love it if you did,” I said. “Both the boys think of nothing but playing with women. As far as I’m concerned, you can do anything with the boys except drugs and anything that hurts more than a spanking,” I reassured her, patting her arm as it circled Timmy’s erection, teasing and provoking him.
“No drugs? Not even viagra?” Sister Aida Marie was surprised.
I reached into my handbag again and produced a single tablet. “That’s the one exception,” I told her, “and aspirin is the other one exception. I always carry both. You never know who you might meet.” I broke the pill in half, gave one piece to Greg and dropped the other piece into Timmy’s mouth. I felt his warm, moist lips slip over my fingertips as he swallowed the pill. Sometimes I let Timmy suck my fingers for hours, as though I were a boy and he were a girl. I had often kissed Timmy’s lips. I knew Greg’s cock was already throbbing and ready for sister Aida Marie’s love. The tablets would keep both boys rigid for a couple of hours, perhaps well into the night. I hoped the sisters were in no rush.

Aida Marie put her foot back on the floor and her habit fell with a swish, covering her body again. She moved along the row and stood between the boys, then she cupped the back of Greg’s head in one hand, tilted his head back and gave him a long, gentle kiss. “No wonder God loves you,” she whispered to him, “for I certainly do.”
“Do you love me?” Greg was surprised.
“Your cock can fuck me all day, any day,” said sister Aida Marie, confidentially. “Wearing panties around boys like you ought to be a sin for a woman.”

“Aida Marie,” I asked, “if you want to take the boys out of the room, do you think you could take them where I can see them?”
“I don’t think the back row of the nave is very private,” she said with astonishing candour, “but we’ll happily get the boys’ shorts off and have sex with them here, or you can come with us. We nuns have a quiet place. The service starts in a couple of minutes so you’d best come with us now.”
“Us?” I asked. “Are sister Vicenza and sister Violet ready for this?”
“Very definitely. We were talking. The sisters were very taken with the boys,” said sister Aida Marie, indicating sister Violet and sister Vicenza. “Pity there are only three of us here. We can go into the side chapel and they’ll join us there.”

Sister Aida Marie led the way. She looked longingly at the boys, both of whom now had erections due to her gentle but effective petting and stroking. We had been in the side chapel before, and we knew that it offered enough privacy to kiss or to tease the boys’ cocks. We entered the side chapel and we waited a second for sisters Violet and Vicenza to catch up with us. Then sister Aida Marie opened a small door in a recess, motioning us to go through it. Sister Vicenza closed the door behind us. The six of us were in a tall, narrow, windowless passageway with a flagstone floor and rough hewn stone and mortar walls, dimly lit by a single electric bulb.

“Have you ever been in here?” sister Aida Marie asked me, smiling.
“No,”I told her. “Are we safe here? Shouldn’t we be wearing hard hats to protect our heads from falling masonry?”

Sister Vicenza broke her silence and laughed. She might have been twenty five years old. She had a sweet, irresistible smile and warm, shining blue eyes. She spoke with an English accent that betokened a very expensive school replete with ivy climbing the walls, little girls in daringly short pleated skirts, tennis shorts, uniforms and canes. She had a deep laugh like the peal of a bass church bell. I imagined she could sound very, very seductive. “I’m sister Vicenza, I’ve seen you here many times, Jennie, with those gorgeous boys. We have been lusting after them for a while and we just had to arrange some time alone together.”
“Have we been kidnapped?” asked Timmy.
“You’re reading my mind,” I said, taking his little hand and squeezing it.

Sister Vicenza put her arm around Timmy and held him to her, rubbing his back. “Oh, darling, of course not,” she said. She took hold of the door-knob and opened the door for a second, letting in a shaft of daylight. “This is a secret room, that’s all. You can get out any time you want.”

As she spoke, sister Vicenza put her right hand directly onto Timmy’s cock, feeling it stiffening and pressing against the fabric of the green shorts. As Timmy felt the surge of pleasure from her expert fingertips, sister Vicenza kissed him on the mouth.

“Although we hope you’ll stay,” said her friend, sister Violet. There were a few strands of brilliant red hair sneaking out from sister Violet’s cowl, and her voice was rural Northern Ireland.
“Coleraine,” I said to her, recognising the distinctive accent of the farm girl and the smuggler, “you’re from Coleraine.”
“Portrush,” she corrected me.
“Not far off.”

Sister Vicenza opened her mouth and pressed her lips against Timmy’s.“That’s a French kiss,” she smiled to Timmy, “your first French kiss. When a woman kisses you like that, it means she wants you to,” she lowered her voice to a sibilant stage whisper, “fuck her.”

“Lots of churches had rooms like these, sweetheart,” sister Violet continued, “cut into the walls in the time of Cromwell… You’re Greg, aren’t you?”

Sister Violet followed sister Vicenza’s example and placed her hand squarely on Greg’s cock, moving her hand in circles so as to tease and engorge the cock without letting it lead the boy into orgasm.

“Yes,” said Greg, “everyone calls me Crunchie, though.”
“This antechamber used to lead to the manse and the priory, Crunchie,” sister Aida Marie purred to Greg, in the way that one relates the five hundred year old oral tradition of one’s Order to a small boy who knows almost no history and whose only interest in Church is sister Violet’s practised right hand, squeezing, lifting, stroking, arousing his young cock while not bringing him to his orgasm. “It probably still does lead there, although your Mom’s right, you’d need hard hats and Davy lamps if you wanted to walk through it nowadays. But you can see there’s a wee chamber here where we can spend some time with you boys and your Mom undisturbed. You can do,” with careful emphasis, “whatever you want with us in here.”

As sister Aida Marie was speaking, sister Vicenza put her lips onto Timmy’s and held him tightly to her, rubbing the curves of his bottom, kissing his lips hard and pulling him towards her. “Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart,” she said gently, reciting the desperate cry of unrequited love from Matthew’s gospel, “how often I have longed to embrace your brother and you, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings…”
“You’ve already bonded with Timmy,” I observed.
“He’s the gorgeous love of my life,” she returned. “How old is he?”
“Eight,” said Timmy.
“If Cromwell were still alive,” said sister Vicenza, “I could marry him.”

Violet, eyes closed, hands caressing every inch of her beloved Greg, was making passionate love to him. “Ah!” He gasped as Violet reached between his legs and found his big, hard balls. She obviously knew where to find a little boy’s B Spot as Greg flushed bright red and nearly orgasmed on the spot.

“Let’s go into the chamber,” said sister Aida Marie. “We can lie down in there.”
“Do you like that? When I do that?” sister Violet asked Greg, figering his B spot, knowing that he did.
“Oh, that is so sexy,” said Greg.
“There’s not that many women know how to do that,” Violet told him conversationally, “so choose your wife with care. Here, I’ll do it—”
“Oh! OH!” Greg gasped. His cock surged.
“—again,” said sister Violet. “And don’t get the wrong idea, because you aren’t going to come for a long while yet. I love giving boys blue balls.”

The chamber was perhaps ten feet square and dimly lit by a small, high air-brick. The masons had evidently not wanted to cut a window in the wall and give away the existence of the chamber to Cromwell’s bloodthirsty troops massed outside in the church yard. There was a woven mat on the stone floor. There was a small bureau by the wall, two candles stood in candle holders, a couple of pictures hung on the wall, and a large modern bed and a leather sofa filled most of the room. On the far wall there was a curtain hanging from an old fashioned curtain pole, although there were no windows.

From the bureau, sister Aida Marie took a lighter and lit the candles, flooding the chamber with a flickering, warm light. As a room for sex play, this was perfect.

The boys were impressed. “Wow.”

Sisters Vicenza and Violet removed the boys’ shoes, picked the boys up and lay them out on the bed. Then in a second all three nuns had slipped out of their black satin habits and revealed themselves in beautiful lingerie: black panties and brassieres, garter belts and full stockings. Their shoes were black stiletto pumps, graceful and constraining, with what looked like six inch heels. The women could have been Victoria’s Secret Angels or centrefolds, and dressing alike made them even more enticing. Sister Aida Marie, an exhibitionist in lingerie, shook out her long, straight chestnut coloured hair. I felt very envious.

“Wow,” said Timmy, awestruck, “you’re babes.”

“You must have been models,” I said to no-one in particular.
“Quite right,” said sister Vicenza, “we were the Heartbreak Agency. Underwear, nudes, strip bars, commercials, fake news. When it closed, we spent its assets—”
“They don’t want to know all that,” said sister Violet. Seated on the bed, she unfastened the clip that held Greg’s pink shorts together and slid the shorts down his muscular, hairless legs and over his ankles. “Beautiful, beautiful legs, darling.” Her fingertips probed his cock again, concentrating on the tip, exciting him but not allowing him near his orgasm. “This little cock is gorgeous, perfect, and will make many girls happy.”
“Are you moist?” Greg asked sister Violet. I didn’t realise that he knew women moistened. “Told you not to get the wrong idea,” she said.

Sister Vicenza had eased her right hand up the legs of Timmy’s green shorts and was engaged in holding and releasing the tip of his penis, making him aroused.

“I’m making you a bit uncomfortable, aren’t I?” she laughed to Timmy, making him wait for the next gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t let you orgasm for a while yet. Half a viagra tablet really worked for you, didn’t it?” She manipulated Timmy’s cock so that he felt another surge of passion.

I looked around. Now the candles were burning brighter, the pictures on the wall, which in the gloom I had taken to be oil paintings, turned out to be large photographs, or possibly double-page spreads cut from a magazine. Both showed an older nun spanking a younger nun, her habit raised and her bottom bare, beating her with a cane. The older nun wore an expression of cold severity and the younger was red faced and soaked in tears. In the first photograph, the submissive nun was scared and her bottom was nearly unmarked. In the second her bottom was scarlet and her face was full of hopelessness and pain.

“Sister Aida Marie,” I asked, “what’s this room used for?”
“Having sex,” she told me. “Men who come to Church are sex starved. It’s the best place.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Don’t get the wrong impression. This was a correction room,” she said, “right up until the 1920s when it went out of fashion. It’s soundproof and well away from the convent building, and the girls confessed their sins in the side chapel and they were sent in here to see the Superior. And she used these.”

Sister Aida Marie drew aside the short curtain on the wall, releasing a cloud of dust. She and I both sneezed. Behind the curtain was a rack of leather tawses and canes.

“Some of these haven’t touched a girl’s bottom for a century,” said sister Aida Marie reverently. “The girls were pretty penitent after they’d had a dose of these, but don’t have nightmares, we don’t use them. Except,” looking straight at me, “on seriously deserving cases.”

I heard Greg moan and Violet giggle as she brought him to the edge of orgasm and then stalled him with pressure at the base of his penis. She purred, “Not yet.”

“Would you use them if you were asked nicely?” I said. I noticed that some of the canes and tawses were dusty but the rest had been used recently.
“I thought you’d probably ask.” Sister Aida Marie picked up one of the tawses, a heavy, yellowish-brown three-tailed leather belt about two feet long. “If you want it, get your skirt and panties off and bend over the end of the sofa.”
“Yes, please. Spank me. I love it.”

I was bottomless a moment later, my skirt, panties and tights in the bureau.

“Greg approves,” said sister Violet, “at least, his cock noticed you. You’re not going to come yet, Greg, so just enjoy the view.”
“Timmy’s cock agrees,” giggled sister Vicenza, “He wants to see you get a sore bottom — oh, I’ve made it harder. Oh, my, you’re wearing girls’ panties, Timmy. See through lace with ruffles, letting those beautiful male curves show through. You look fabulous.”

I turned to Greg and gave him a long look at my uncovered lower body.

“Quit stalling and bend over,” sister Aida Marie ordered, adopting a headmistressy tone. “I’m going to give your arse such a tanning.”
“Coming, sister,” I said, and I settled over the end of the sofa. My bottom felt cold and very vulnerable. For some reason I suddenly wondered whether my husband Peter had come home and found that we hadn’t come back home from Church.
“Greg!” Sister Aida Marie shrieked imperiously, “Bring your girlfriend over here this minute.”
“Am I really your girlfriend, Crunchie?” Sister Violet asked him.
“Yes,“ said Greg, ”yes, please.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” said Greg.
“Probably,” I said, my face pressed against the leather cushion. “He won’t get another chance of a beauty like you, sister Violet.”

Lying on the bed beside his brother, Greg looked over at sister Aida Marie and then at me, not wanting to leave the gorgeous blonde whose fingertips were keeping him teetering on the cusp of orgasm. Sister Violet pulled the rest of Greg’s clothes off, sat Greg up and walked across the room with him. Sister Aida Marie handed Greg the tawse, while sister Violet knelt at his feet and lovingly, gently lifted Greg’s cock into her mouth.

“Spank your mother,” said sister Aida Marie, “Six smacks, as hard as you can.”

Greg held the tawse in his right hand and looked at it as though he had no idea what to do with it.

“Forget she’s your mom and just think of her as a backside that needs to be thrashed,” said sister Aida Marie. There was a pause. Greg didn’t spank me, and sister Aida Marie added, “Go on, she’s gagging for it.”

Then without my seeing it coming — Wham! — the tawse lashed the centre of my backside with enough force to demolish a house. It cracked like a firework. Greg was a lean, athletic child who could defeat any other boy in a fight, and his arms were stronger than pile drivers. I felt something hard and cold, and after a second I felt the pain, like an agonising bee-sting burning my bum cheeks.
“Ow!” I cried out, “Christ, Greg, that thing really hurts—”
“Count the strokes,” sister Aida Marie admonished.
“He’s a natural,” sister Violet gasped to her. “What a boyfriend.” She kissed Greg’s straight, stiff cock and took it back into her cute mouth.
“One,” I said.

Wham! Greg’s second stroke landed on top of the first and the pain in my backside doubled.

“Two,” I counted.
“You can smack harder than that,” said sister Aida Marie, and she was right.

The third smack seared my bare buttocks. Whaam!
“Ow! Oow! Three.”

The tongues of the tawse caught me around the right hip, leaving a burning hot mark. Behind me I could make out sister Violet taking hold of Greg’s balls in one hand and sucking his cock affectionately. She let him feel her tongue for a second. I could see the rapture in Greg’s face for an instant and then, Whaam!
“Aagh! Four.”
“Good boy, Greg,” said sister Aida Marie, “but a fit young man like you can smack a lot harder than that.”

The pain was already unbearable, and I heard sister Violet encouraging Greg by telling him, “If you want to fuck your mother, you’ll have to take control of her. You need to hit her harder than that.”

Greg took a step back and — Whaack! — landed the tawse on my buttocks again.
“Oh, oh!” I felt tears welling up. “Five!”
Was Greg really going to fuck me? I didn’t let him fuck me at home. Not often, anyway. Hand release was one thing, all boys need that, but if Greg got the idea that I was all his any time he liked… Incest fuck, just what I needed to add spice to my home life.

And then — WHAAM!

My bottom seemed to explode for a moment. “Six.” I was crying now and my buttocks were throbbing and burning. I felt as though I had been sitting in red hot embers. “Christ, that hurts.”

I tried to stand up, but a severe twinge of pain in the buttocks held me back in the spanking position. I was still crying. I knew my buttocks and my face were mauve with tawsing and humiliation.

“Bend over!” sister Aida Marie said to me, unnecessarily. “Have y’ever spanked anyone before?” she asked Greg. He shook his head. “You’re good at it.”

Sister Vicenza was lying on the bed with her right hand tucked into Timmy’s green shorts, still edging him expertly.
“No, you’re not going to come yet. How d’you like this?”
“Ah!” said Timmy as she went for the B spot again.
“You nearly came that time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sister,” Timmy nodded.

I felt something cold against my rear. Sister Aida Marie was applying gelatine to me from a small tube. After that, she squeezed gelatine onto Greg’s little cock. “Fuck your mother’s arse hole,” she bid him.

I was still crying. The pain in my backside was growing, becoming deeper and throbbing more severely. I hadn’t felt like this since I was caught smoking a cigarette in the playground, and that time they let me keep my panties on.

Greg looked at his new girlfriend, sister Violet, as though he needed permission to stray from her. “Go ahead,” she said. “All boys fuck their mommies. I’ll still love you.” And in a whisper, “Go on, use the cock God gave you on the woman he’s lent you.”

I smelled Greg’s warm body close behind me and his breath on the back of my neck. A second later his chest touched my back and his cock began to slide into the place God created. “Oh, yes,” I said.

I felt Greg withdraw and then press his cock back inside again, and without thinking I breathed, “Yes, Greg, yes, I love you.” Withdraw, push, pause. Withdraw, push harder. I tilted my rear towards him, trying to get the cock further inside. Withdraw, push, pause. “Yes, Greg, a bit more, a bit more. Push it inside.”

Greg pushed his cock deeper. I heard him catch his breath and then gasp, “Oh, oh Mom, oh Mom, you’re giving me such pleasure,” as his orgasm caught him and shook him like a sail in the wind. No milk from one so young — that would come along in a year or two — but the intense furnace of a little boy's dry orgasm boiled over. He slammed his hips against my buttocks, pushing the cock deep. I felt the cock jerk between my buttocks repeatedly, twelve times perhaps, and then slowly soften. A practised lover of anal sex, I was enjoying the knowledge that Greg had reached his peak.

We were silent for fully ten minutes, panting, resting, our heartbeats recovering, and the only sound in the room being sister Vicenza playing with little Timmy’s cock. His shorts were open now and slightly lowered. He gasped and giggled as she cooed and kissed him.

I guessed what was on Timmy’s mind. “No&rdquo, I said, “not now, not ever. You so much as ask and I'll cane your backside until you scream.&rdquo
“Mom, will you let me…”
“No. If you want to fuck, find a girlfriend. Now don’t you ever dare ask again.”

Sister Vicenza kissed him on the lips and resumed teasing his balls and his cock. He was rigid. Sister Vicenza knew exactly how to edge a boy — the trick of exciting him without bringing him to his orgasm. Timmy was red faced and obviously balanced on the cusp. Sister Vicenza touched his balls and brought him part-way back to earth.

“I love you, Timmy,” she said to him. “Come to Church mid week and I'll give you…,” she looked at me, “something you will really, really like.”

She meant intercourse. At least, I think she did. If she wanted to fuck him, she was welcome. It would do no harm and maybe even raise a desire in Timmy to go to Church more often.

“Here.” Sister Violet brought warm water in an enamel bowl and some soap and flannels from somewhere, “I bet you enjoyed that.”

She wiped the mess off my backside. The cool water reduced the pain of the tawsing for a short while. She led Greg back to the bed. I stood up shakily and lay full length face down on the sofa, noticing how Greg had thrust his swollen cock so hard into my bum that I could still feel every inch of its two-inch, rigid length. I sensed that my relationship with Greg had changed now that he had taken me by force, and I wondered what forms the change might take. I knew already that I would never be able to resist his begging for intercourse, anal or anywhere else. If either boy tried to fuck me, I would probably never resist, although I vowed to myself to keep a stinging school cane beside my bed in case the boys needed it. I was their whore and concubine, and I loved the new feelings. Sister Aida Marie came and sat with me, kissing my scarlet buttocks and then turning me over to kiss my lips.
“Thank you,” we both said, and kissed again.
I had stopped crying although my backside still hurt fiercely. “Greg calls you ‘the old one,’ sister,” I said.
“Does he? I’ll tawse him senseless,” said sister Aida Marie.
“Make it hurt, sister.”

On the bed sister Vicenza slipped Timmy’s green shorts down and took the tip of his cock into her mouth. With an expression of sudden stress, Timmy said that he couldn’t hold on any longer.
“I need to piss!”
“Go ahead, gorgeous,” said sister Vicenza, pressing Timmy’s little cock into her mouth and closing her lips tightly around its base.
Timmy’s cock released a flood of piss and sister Vicenza drank it. After that she kissed him lovingly on the mouth.
“Good boy.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry? Don't be sorry because I loved it. I love piss but yours is special. You take your diaper off when you’re with me. And you really squirted it out. Gosh, you can piss hard.”