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Subject: Sum 15 Summer of Sin part 15 of 20 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
SUMMER OF SIN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Fifteen
I was young. I was healthy. And I was about to embark on a
voyage of erotic discovery that could lead someplace dangerous. I stood
in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my hair, as Sister Mary had
told me to do. I was completely naked. I looked at my slim, tanned
body and wondered what condition I’d be in by morning.
The priests scared me. Other men were interested in having a
good time, but their interest seemed to plumb deeper depths. They were
interested in “female endurance,” they’d told me, casually, as we walked
from the big Catholic church downtown. Later the other priest had
spoken of “the limits of female endurance.”
What did they mean by that? I told myself I was being too
curious, that I should insist on being taken home, on leaving at once.
I was too little. Such games were meant for bigger girls, like my
aunt.
Suddenly, I felt a thrill race up my spine. She wasn’t here!
She didn’t even know where I was. Anything might happen to me here,
with my two strange, hunky priests, and I’d have absolutely no way to
call on her for help.
“Is-- is there a phone here?” I asked the large, fat woman,
well-wrapped in clothes, who sat on the toilet watching me as I brushed
my hair.
“A phone? What do you need a phone for?” the fat woman asked.
“So I can call my aunt,” I answered. I glanced at my nails.
The finish on them was coming off in a few places.
“Don’t just look at them. There’s a nail file and nail polish
in the drawer,” Sister Mary, still gazing at me from the toilet, said.
“Where?” I asked. I looked down at the bathroom counter. It
was old, but highly polished and immaculately clean.
Sister Mary sighed. “To the drawer on your right,” she said.
“Open it. I’m too weary from working all day to get up and help you
find everything. And put your hair into pigtails. Do you see the black
ribbons laid out for you on the counter? Don’t make me do it for you,
child, or I’ll have a mind to put you over my knee. You’ll be sore
enough from the priests without having me at your fanny too.”
“What-- what will they do to me?” I stammered. I opened the
drawer under the counter, on my right, but my mind was once again
fixated on the two new men in my life.
“They will teach you a healthy respect for morals,” the woman
said. “All girls should learn from them.”
“What-- what if I want to be immoral?” I asked. With a hand I
noticed was trembling, and quite unable to stop it, I reached into the
drawer and took out a bottle of nail polish. It contained clear
polish. It would make my nails shiny without excessively coloring
them. When I was younger I’d preferred bright red. But now I liked
clear. How did the priests know which nail polish I preferred?
“You still haven’t told me if there’s a phone,” I said to
Sister Mary. With shaky fingers I began trying to repair the polish on
my nails.
“Of course not!” Sister Mary huffed. She stood up. “Give me
the polish, child. Can’t you do anything for yourself? Look how your
hands are shaking! Sit down on the toilet seat. I’ll have to do your
nails for you, as well as your mascara, your lipstick. This will take
forever, and you’ll mess yourself up, if you try doing it with those
hands of yours shaking like that!”
Meekly I went to the toilet. I sat down on the furry seat. It
tickled my bare bottom. Sister Mary took my wrist and made me hold out
my hand.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of. You’re in the presence
of men of God,” Sister Mary said matter-of-factly to me.
“But what if they decide I’m a sinner?” I asked her.
“They’ve already decided that. That’s why you’re here,” she
said. She began applying the polish to my little finger.
“I- I don’t want to be spanked,” I said.
“You should have thought of that before you sinned,” Sister
Mary said. “No talking. If I had to listen to the whining of every
young lady who visits, I’d ask God to strike me deaf. You’ll say no
more, girl, or I’ll have you over my knee-- pronto!”
“Y- Ooop!” I said, swallowing the words ‘Yes, ma’am,’ as Sister
Mary lifted her eyes and gave me a cross look. Fortunately she forgave
that indiscretion, and I said no more. She quietly painted my nails and
prepared me for the priests.
“Ah, here she is,” Father Virgil announced when I was brought
by Sister Mary into the living room. Father Brannigan came from the
kitchen. He read a book as he walked. I saw a glimpse of its cover.
It was a book on female anatomy.
“Yes,” Father Brannigan said, looking me over as I stood before
Father Virgil. He circled around behind me. I wore my hair in
pigtails, bound with black ribbons. I had a black, long-sleeved shirt
on. It had white cuffs and a matching white collar. It looked like a
shirt girls wear to private school, but Sister Mary had only buttoned
one button of it across my breasts. She slapped my hands away, in the
bathroom, when I tried to button the rest of the buttons. I wore black
panties. They were French-cut, high in back, baring both my cheeks.
The edges of the panties were frilled. There was a row of tiny black
bows at the front of my panties, where my pubic hair grew. They ran in
a line down the front of my panties. They looked merely decorative, but
in fact each one could be untied. They held my panties closed. They
were rather like a zipper on the front of a man’s pants that holds
closed the fly of his trousers. Except, in my case, I didn’t have any
need for an opening in my panties, unless it was to let something in,
rather than out. It would be far too cumbersome to untie all those
little bows just to pee. I blushed as Father Virgil’s eyes fixed on the
tiny black bows running down the front of my black panties.
“Sister Mary didn’t give me a skirt,” I told Father Virgil. I
felt I could speak now. After all, even though Sister Mary was present,
I was being turned over to the priests. They hadn’t told me I couldn’t
talk.
Father Virgil lifted his eyes. Father Brannigan, still behind
me, gazed with satisfaction at the round nudity of my bottom. My
panties, French-style, only managed to cover the crease of my ass. I
saw Father Brannigan’s eyes in the glass of a hutch behind Father
Virgil. I felt like I was being studied, as if I were some butterfly
they’d caught, and were examining before pinning it to a board.
“Ah yes,” Father Virgil said. He dropped his eyes back to my
crotch. Then his eyes dipped lower and lingered over my tight-pressed
legs, both of them clad in long, black thigh-high stockings. I wore
black shoes on my feet, both of them brightly polished. Somehow, they’d
known my foot size in advance. Or did they keep various pairs of shoes,
because they had so many girls visit them over the course of a year?
“You are wearing the uniform of our school,” Father Virgil said. “As a
courtesy to the girls we permit them to go without dresses in the summer
time. Our school isn’t air conditioned, you know. Many of our pupils
are young, and some are unaccustomed to wearing a bra. So that is why
we’ve also omitted that garment. I think you’ll find your shirt, your
panties, and your stockings to be quite satisfactory.”
“And your shoes,” Father Brannigan said. “Sister Mary did such
a fine job of polishing them.”
“They’re new,” Sister Mary said, somewhere behind me. “I waxed
them well, though, to make it harder for her to scuff them. You know
how little girls are.”
“Thank you, Sister Mary,” Father Brannigan said, still eyeing
my bottom. “You may go now. See to your chores. We’ll return her to
you when we’re through with her.”
“Yes, Father Brannigan,” Sister Mary said. “Let me know if she
proves especially difficult.”
“Did you have her swallow a pill?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Of course, father,” Sister Mary answered.
“Why do I need a pill if I’m only going to school?” I asked.
“We are ourselves not without sin, sometimes,” Father Virgil
said to me. He grinned. He stood up. “Let us go downstairs to the
school room, Chloe. We must begin your lessons.” He took my arm. “Do
you feel you are ready?” he asked me quietly. I shivered.
“I guess so, sir,” I answered.
“Ah, you must call me ‘father,’” Father Virgil said. “That
will be a demerit for you, Chloe. We must start paying attention to
such things now.”
“Oh! I’m frightened!” I said, quite truthfully, as we went
round a corner and approached a big wooden door.
“It is good to be frightened in the presence of the Lord,”
Father Virgil said.
Father Brannigan came forward. He unlocked the wooden door.
We stepped into a kind of alcove, beyond the opened door, and I saw a
flight of steps leading down into darkness. Father Virgil flicked a
light switch at the top of the stairs.
“Our school room is in the basement,” Father Virgil told me.
“It’s cooler down there, in the summertime. It also has the advantage
of being sound proof.”
“Mmmm, I mustn’t!” I blurted. I gazed at the long flight of
stairs leading down under the earth.
“Move along, child,” Father Brannigan said. I felt a sharp tap
on my bottom. I turned. I looked over my shoulder. Father Brannigan
was holding a riding crop!
There was a desk for me, downstairs. It sat all by itself in
the middle of the room. It consisted of a wooden table, with a separate
chair. I saw the desk was well-used. It had initials carved into it
near its front edge, plus other, aimless marks. Its legs were chipped
and worn, as if something had struck them repeatedly. I gazed around me
as Father Virgil led me over to the desk. The room was strange, a
one-room schoolhouse for one girl. At the front of the room were two
big desks, one for each of the priests. There was a space between them,
so that a pupil, called forward, might pass between them to write on the
portable black board at the front of the room. Incongruously, along one
side of the room was a bed. It was a narrow, single bed. It had a
coverlet upon it that had letters of the alphabet sewn into it.
I sat down at my desk. The seat was hard, wooden,
no-nonsense. I realized with a start, sitting upon it, that if I
suffered some penalty, the hard seat would be doubly difficult to sit
on. A spanked bottom needed a soft seat, not a hard one like this.
I glanced up at the two men, my instructors. They loomed over
me. They gazed down at my small body sitting with contrite composure.
My eyes ran over their hard, muscled figures, cloaked in black robes. I
lingered at the places below both their belts. Their trousers bulged.
I licked my lips.
“Is there something that arouses you, Chloe?” Father Brannigan
asked me. His voice was direct, the words spoken loudly. I quavered in
my seat.
“Yes,” I confessed.
“And what is that?” Father Virgil asked.
“Your... pants. They are big in front,” I stammered.
“Yes, Chloe,” Father Brannigan said. “We are men. Would you
like to see what it is that is making us so uncomfortable?”
“If you wish me to, father,” I answered. I glanced away from
their crotches and down at my desk. There were three books piled on
it. There was a box of crayons lying beside the books. I felt a
strange sensation of power within me as I carefully opened one of the
books, ignoring the priests, and popped open my box of crayons. The
book was a coloring book. I took a crayon and began coloring the first
picture in the book. I noticed, as I colored, that the figure was of a
nude human being. Adam in the Garden of Eden. I saw he wore no
clothes. The book was explicit. I doodled with an orange crayon down
the length of his chest and on, along the shaft of a cock that dangled
between his legs.
“Color within the lines, Chloe,” Father Virgil said to me in a
constricted voice.
“Oh! I made a mistake!” I cried. I’d moved the crayon line
out beyond the end of his penis, making his thing longer.
“She will need to be punished for that,” Father Brannigan said.
“Most certainly,” Father Virgil agreed.
I gazed up at my two teachers with wide eyes. I felt small,
vulnerable. But then a shiver of pleasure centered itself somewhere
between my legs, deep in my womb. I put down my crayon. I reached up
with both my hands. My teachers, I think, supposed I intended to ward
off their blows, fearing they were determined to punish me. With
trembling fingers (though not, perhaps, entirely from fear) I reached
towards them.
“It’s not my fault that I made a mistake, gentlemen,” I said in
a voice that was surprisingly firm.
“Huh?” my teachers answered.
“How can I possibly color a man’s thing properly if I don’t
have an example?” I said. I touched my fingertips to the front of their
trousers. I felt them bulging, there below their black polished belts.
I found the tab of each man’s fly and pulled on it.
In a moment, using my curious fingers, I’d forced both men to
produce their erections. I gaped at them, obviously impressed. I ran
my fingers along the length of each man’s penis, sizing it up, like a
minnow, perhaps, might size up two big water eels. They quavered
fleshily at my touch, both hard, both taut like lightning rods, thick as
butcher’s sausages. I smiled and licked my lips.
“There, that’s better,” I told my teachers. I let go of them.
With reluctant fingers I picked up my crayon again and began once more
to color in the man in my coloring book. I looked up at their cocks,
then back down at my book. I could feel their tension like an electric
current running through the room. They were hard, desperately hard, but
I was just an obedient little girl doing my lessons.
“You are... a most enterprising child,” Father Brannigan said.
His voice was tight. I’d won the first round in our little erotic war.
How could they punish me if I was doing my best? I was a good girl.
With cautious eyes I looked up again, and stared with frank innocence at
the big penis Father Brannigan was presenting to me. Then I examined
Father Virgil. “How nice of you gentlemen to show me your things,” I
said. I sucked on my crayon a moment. Then I went back to my book.
I began humming a tune. Happily I colored the first page in my
coloring book. I used different crayons: green for the leaves on the
trees in Eden, brown for their trunks. Bright red for the snake
slithering up the tree trunk. The apple that hung so conspicuously on
the page, dangling from a branch, I colored gold.
“An apple isn’t supposed to be gold,” Father Brannigan, clearly
hoping to regain the upper hand in our relationship, told me. I looked
up at him.
“All the apples are gold in Eden,” I said. “Except for the
silver ones.”
I finished my picture. I drew a sun up in the corner of the
picture to shine golden rays down on my golden apple that hung from the
tree where Adam stood strong and tall. I let the two priests admire
it. They both examined it for flaws, but except for making Adam’s thing
longer, I hadn’t made any.
“It’s too bad, it’s such a pretty picture,” I said to my two
priests.
“What is too bad?” Father Brannigan asked.
“It’s too bad that God is dead,” I said.
“What?” Father Virgil gasped.
I felt both priests grab my arms. They lifted me up. My box
of crayons, standing up on my desk, fell over. One of my crayons rolled
off the surface of my desk and fell to the floor and broke into two.
With pent-up fury both men grabbed at my blouse and yanked on it. The
single button holding it closed popped open. My bosoms sprang out.
They shivered starkly under me, their nipples suddenly pebble-hard. The
white flesh of each cone was pert and inviting against the deeper tan of
my ribs, shoulders and belly.
“My child,” Father Brannigan said. He traced a finger softly
around one of my nipples. “Do you think such lovely treasures as these
bosoms of yours could be created by a God who is dead?”
Recovering myself, still trying to keep the upper hand with my
two teachers, I answered, “I think so. Yes. And I have a whole book to
color, sir.”
“Don’t call us sir. We’re priests, not police,” Father Virgil
said.
“Oh.” I answered. I looked down at Father Virgil’s thing. “Is
that why you have a nightstick?” I asked. I felt Father Virgil’s hand
grope toward my panties. He seized them. Though his hand was big and
strong, it trembled as it tugged at the fabric of my undies. “You won’t
be needing these,” Father Virgil husked. He yanked my panties down my
thighs.
“Oh! What are you doing?” I cried.
“We must test the weakness of your flesh,” Father Brannigan
said.
“And train you,” Father Virgil said. “Both your mind and your
body. I’m afraid the clothing must be removed if this is to be done
with the greatest efficiency.”
“It is why we conduct our lessons downstairs,” Father Brannigan
said. “You will be permitted to dress when it’s time to go upstairs
again.”
My panties were removed. I kicked my feet as Father Virgil
pulled them off. He handed them to Father Brannigan, who put them into
a pocket in his shirt, over his chest. Over his heart. My blouse was
taken off and hung on the back of my chair.
“This way,” Father Virgil said, helpfully. He drew me from
behind my desk. Father Brannigan flourished a riding crop. (It had
been shoved through his belt while they watched me color.)
“Oh, please don’t hurt me!” I shouted. My cry was heart-felt.
Father Brannigan, despite being a priest, was a big man. I knew even
one whack from that riding crop would sting like the dickens.
“You have nothing to fear, my child. It is all to the greater
glory of God,” Father Virgil murmured.
“Consider this the hand of God,” Father Brannigan said with a
most unsaintly grin, flourishing the hand that held his crop.
Father Virgil pulled back the coverlet on the single-sized
bed. The bed had long legs. It was high off the floor. There were
steps to allow one to climb up onto the bed but Father Virgil lifted me
up and plopped me down on it so I wouldn’t have to step up.
“Open your legs,” Father Virgil said. He pushed my stockinged
knees apart. He made me show my dell to him. It was the priests’ first
long look at my sex and they gazed at it lasciviously, like two monks
examining something they’d only ever seen before from drawings. I
wondered if, indeed, their ‘schoolroom’ had entertained other girls, or
if I was the first. The fact that both men might not, in fact, be the
experts in female training they claimed to be sent a thrill of erotic
fear through me. What if, in fact, they knew nothing about handling a
girl, but only knew their own malevolent male fantasies? They gazed at
me like boys drooling over Penthouse. Except I was real. I wasn’t a
magazine. If they dropped me, or threw me across the room, I’d break.
“Yes,” Father Virgil husked. He nodded to Father Brannigan.
“Let’s test her,” Father Brannigan said.
“Lie back, my child,” Father Virgil told me. “Lie back and
make yourself comfortable.”
I lay back on the bed. I looked over at the two priests.
Father Virgil took my wrists and lofted them up over my head. I rolled
my eyes toward the ceiling and gasped. Hanging above the bed, up under
a rafter in the ceiling, was a pair of handcuffs! Father Virgil reached
up and drew the cuffs down. He snapped them to my wrists. I struggled
against my bonds and made the chain from which the cuffs hung rattle.
But it didn’t give way. My wrists were lifted high, drawn back,
locked. There was no escape. All I could do was look up at my bound
hands and wonder.
That’s when they opened my legs as completely as they could. I
felt my thighs stretched hard apart and gasped. The priests chuckled.
My small feet were placed into shackles at the foot of the bed. I cried
out. The priests told me to scream all I liked, the room was
soundproofed, no one could hear me. They buckled my ankles into steel
manacles. The metal felt cold through my stockings. I lifted my head.
I gaped down at my pussy, white and bare and neatly furred, my tan line
making me look sexy where I usually wore my swimsuit. Beyond, my legs
opened wide, long and brown from lying in the sun by my aunt’s pool.
Black stockings rose up my legs to mid-thigh, making my legs very
pretty.
“Apply the honey,” Father Brannigan said to Father Virgil.
“What?” I asked.
Father Virgil loomed over me with a pot of honey in his hand.
He drew from it a tiny brush. It was an artist’s paint brush.
“This brush is made of the finest bristles,” Father Virgil told
me, gazing into my frightened eyes. “It won’t hurt you. But we are
testing the weakness of your flesh. Don’t cry out. It’s a test. If
you do, you will feel Father Brannigan’s riding crop slash across your
lovely flat belly. One stroke for each time you cry.” He smiled.
“Your belly could be just as unmarked as it is now when we’re finished,
or it could be all red and wealed. It’s up to you, little Chloe.”
“Oh! But I can’t!” I gasped. I wriggled hard in my bonds. I
made the chains over my head jangle their iron links. The two priests
laughed.
“Yes, my little slut,” Father Brannigan said. “You’ve had your
breasts sucked, I’m sure. Did you enjoy it? You will find this a bit
different. Here the object is not to simply find pleasure, but to
somehow refrain from it. Try to think of other things as Father Virgil
applies the honey to your nipples. Remember, one slash on your belly
for every time you fail to control yourself.” He laughed, long and
deep, and then added: “Be glad you’re young. With older girls, we
apply the crop to their bosoms.”
Father Virgil dandled a brush over my right nipple. A drop of
honey drooled off its tip and landed squarely on the point of my tit.
“No!” I gasped.
“It must be done. We must test your flesh,” Father Virgil
said. Slowly he lowered the brush. It touched me. I shivered, almost
cried out, bit my lip. With careful, slow strokes, Father Virgil began
to trace the upstanding nubbin of my tit. I watched, quavering in my
bonds, as the tiny brush did its work. My bosoms trembled like twin
mounds of jello, one shiny at its tip with honey, the other still
untouched.
“Moan,” Father Brannigan taunted me. He held the stiff crop
over my belly. He watched with eager eyes as the flat tautness of my
stomach rose and fell with my shivering breaths.
“Oh, I can’t help it!” I shouted, suddenly. “Yeeeeoooch!” I
cried almost instantly afterward. There was a loud crack, the sound of
hard leather striking flesh, as Father Brannigan brought down his crop.
“One,” Father Brannigan said.
“Ohhh, my belly hoits!” I blurted. My cry sounded like that of
a small girl’s.
“Hush, my child. We have a long way to go,” Father Virgil
said. He dipped his brush in the honey pot and returned to my right
nipple. I shouted again as it touched me. It was so small, so
maddeningly small! It would take forever for him to decorate both my
nipples with honey, even though I was only 13 and my tits were not as
large as a woman’s.
“Two,” Father Brannigan said. He brought down the crop again.
Not as hard, this time, but it still burned my skin. It left a red
mark. I shouted and twisted in my steel bonds. “You will learn the
virtue of silence in due time,” Father Brannigan said. “We’ll make sure
of it.”
“Silence is golden, my child,” Father Virgil said. He redipped
his brush. He put another drop of honey on my right tit. I surrendered
a throaty moan to the agonized pleasure of its tight little bristles
tickling my tit. A slash burned sharply across my indrawn tummy in
answer to my cry. I screamed.
“How fortunate it is that she isn’t with child, eh?” Father
Brannigan commented to Father Virgil. His comment sounded like that of
a doctor, working in an operating room theatre: cold, detatched,
remote.
‘Has the patient enough anesthesia, doctor?’ I heard somewhere,
in my head.
‘Why no, doctor, she’s new. We never waste anethesia on the
new ones.’
‘Ah, yes. She probably won’t survive the operation, anyway.’
‘Probably not.’
YEEEEEEEK! My voice sounded loudly in the room. I struggled
in my bonds. Another slash hit my tummy.
“You are awfully close to one of her previous marks,” Doctor
(or was it Father?) Virgil said to the man with the riding crop. (It
all was becoming a hopeless whirl of confusion for me now.) “I don’t
wish to see her wealed, do you? Such a pretty little tummy she has.
How small and smooth. See how the navel dimples it... I must decorate
that too, when I finish with her nipples.”
“I’ll get the ham,” Father Brannigan said. He put down his
riding crop on the bed, beside me. I couldn’t reach it. I was shackled
to the mattress. I couldn’t move, save to writhe in my iron bonds.
Father Virgil applied the honey meticulously to my nipples.
Never did a drop touch any other area of my breasts, except once, which
he quickly bent and licked off. I swooned under the touch of his
bristly brush, each drop of honey applied with exquisite care, as if I
were a painting in progress. Would they sell me when I was finished?
‘Here is a young girl, gentlemen? What am I bid for her?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Two hundred and fifty.’
‘When you tire of looking at her you can of course fuck her...’
Father Virgil finished tormenting my nipples with his brush.
He left both of them gleaming, their upstanding nipple-tips carefully
delineated with loving strokes of honey. He moved to my navel. He
redipped his brush and applied a dollop of honey within my small hole.
Then he moved down to the fur of my pubis.
“Ah, the grand prize,” I heard Father Brannigan say. He had
returned. I gazed at the ceiling, shivering, as I felt him take up his
crop again.
“The thighs,” Father Virgil said, intently bending over my
mound. He applied a thin coat of honey to one tiny patch of my pubic
hair. “I’ve prepared her navel now. Don’t splatter the honey by
striking her there with your crop.”
“Yes,” Father Brannigan agreed. “My, how long her thighs are!
Such a small midriff, and such long thighs. And such pretty knees. Not
a strawberry on them, that I can see. Did you never fall down, my
child?”
“Ooooh!” I gasped as Father Virgil moved his stroking brush
closer to the space between my legs where the heart of my pleasure lay.
“Silence!” Father Brannigan thundered. He slammed his riding
crop down upon my legs. I screamed. He struck me again. I twisted in
my bonds, screamed again, but he did not hit me a third time. He
indulged me, waiting for me to quiet down before beginning to count my
mistakes again. I bit my lower lip hard. I felt a hand come to my
face. It eased my teeth off my lip. The fingers were Father Virgil’s.
“You are being too hard on her,” Father Virgil said. “Please,
give her less forceful strokes. It is pretty to hear her moan. I don’t
wish to have her gagged, do you?”
“No, I suppose not,” Father Brannigan said. “She is only a
child.” He bent low. I felt his manly priest’s face kiss my legs where
he’d marked me. “Such a sweet child,” Father Brannigan said. “Quite a
trooper, really.” I felt a long, cold tongue touch the red burny mark
Father Brannigan had made on me. Had he hurt me to heal me? I trembled
as his priest’s tongue ran along the weal forming on my legs. He kissed
me again, on my other leg.
“I think I have found her spot,” Father Virgil said, as I
wrenched suddenly in my bonds. A tickly brush stroke inquired deeply
between my legs. It diddled upon my clit. I shouted anew, but Father
Brannigan was still kissing my legs, and didn’t strike me. “Do you have
the ham?,” Father Virgil asked.
“Yes, right here,” Father Brannigan answered.
“Good,” Father Virgil said. “She will be done soon.”
I lay trembling in my bonds, several minutes later, watching as
Father Brannigan hovered over me. He placed small bits of ham on me.
He put them wherever the honey had been deposited: on both my nipples,
in my navel. He sprinkled the ham upon the hair of my pubis and in the
small cleft between my legs where my spot of pleasure lay.
Father Virgil went upstairs. He left me alone with Father
Brannigan. I gasped, tried hard not to say anything. Both priests
scared me, but Father Brannigan seemed especially harsh. He enjoyed, I
think, being harsh. I shut my eyes. I prayed to God to keep him from
hurting me. Father Brannigan covered my privates with ham, a very weird
thing, I thought, but at least there was no way bits of ham could be
harmful to me? Was there? I thanked God for not letting Father
Brannigan hurt me.
Father Virgil came back downstairs. I kept my eyes shut. I
didn’t want to look at him anymore. How dare he leave me alone with
such a wicked priest as Father Brannigan! Then, oddly, I wondered
this: if I could have sex with either man, and both were gentle, which
would I prefer? Something inside me told me that, despite his cruel
nature, Father Brannigan was more handsome than Father Virgil.
“No!” I said.
“Hmmm?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Nothing!” I breathed. I had spoken! My eyes flew open, then
shut tightly again, and I waited for the inevitable stroke of the crop
upon my helpless body. But it didn’t come. Could it be, that Father
Brannigan, in addition to being the most handsome, was also becoming
nicer? I hoped so. But he gave a low chuckle, and I felt a deep,
menacing fear suddenly flash through me. He was up to something! He
couldn’t be as gentle as he seemed suddenly to be. He was intending to
do something very wicked with that ham. But what?!
I heard a mewling sound. My eyes popped open. I heard Father
Virgil approaching. I struggled to see what Father Virgil was carrying
with careful hands from across the room. Some creature had been let
loose. It came into my view and I gasped. It was a kitten!
“Was she upstairs?” Father Brannigan asked Father Virgil.
“Yes, out back studying the birds in the bird feeder,” Father
Virgil said. “She just used the kitty litter box, so hopefully there
won’t be any accidents,” Father Virgil said.
“Fine,” Father Brannigan said. He rose up from my legs. He
admired his handiwork. He bent and planted a final kiss on one of my
knees. “It’s time to feed the kitty, Chloe,” Father Brannigan grinned
at me. “Too bad she’s so spoiled, and requires special feeding.”
“Oook!” I gasped, as Father Virgil plopped a small kitten down
on my tummy. The feel of her soft paws against my marked skin made me
wince with pain. I shouted when the kitten moved. It halted. It
stared at me wide-eyed. As I breathed in and out it rode up and down on
the flatness of my belly.
It moved again. It came forward and sniffed my nipples. It
licked the right one. I felt the scrape of its tiny teeth upon my tit
as it nibbled at the ham.
“Oooooh! No, please!” I cried with shocked despair.
“Hopefully kitty can tell your nipple from the ham,” Father
Brannigan chortled.
“Ooch!” I yelled as the kitten made a mistake. I gaped with
frightened eyes down at my breasts. Was I hurt? The priests laughed.
Slowly the cossetted kitten ate its dinner off my nipples.
Each stroke of its tiny tongue across my teats made my whole body shiver
with a mixture of fear and pleasure. The kitten finished one of my
bosoms, moved to the other. It licked there and then moved down to my
navel. Its paws scraped my injured tummy. I shouted. The priests
warned me not to twist and throw the kitten off me. I would be “truly
punished,” they told me, if I did that.
The kitten moved from my belly-button down to my mound of
Venus. It feasted on the honey-laden bits of ham sprinkled in the hair
of my pubis. It licked lower still, finding my spot. I screamed a
blood-curdling scream as the spoiled kitten ate within my pussy. It
almost fell off me; Father Virgil caught it, restored it to me, to its
meal.
“Suffer in silence, child, or I will resume your cropping,”
Father Brannigan said to me roughly. I wept as the curious kitten dug
deeper and deeper into my honey-lined slit with its tongue.
When it was finished, the kitten turned, looked toward my face,
and then, standing over the soft mound of my pubis, it peed. Its hind
end was over my belly and its water sprikled down onto my well-licked
navel.
“Ah, your meal was satisfactory, kitty?” Father Brannigan
asked. He picked it up off me when it had finished relieving itself.
“Careful. It sometimes needs to do number two after it eats,”
Father Virgil warned.
“Yes, I see,” Father Brannigan said. He held the kitten away
from him as it let loose with a quick succession of kitty-sized turds.
They barely missed my bed, falling instead on the floor. Father
Brannigan hurried the kitten over to a kitty litter box set in a corner
of the school room. But by the time he put the kitten down in the box,
it was already finished with its B/M. It glanced down at the sand in
the box. It walked out of it, and gazed with snub-nosed insouciance up
at Father Brannigan, as if to say, ‘Silly man, I’m already done
pooping. Why have you put me in this box?” It stalked across the
room. Father Brannigan bent and picked it up again. “I shall take it
back upstairs,” Father Brannigan said.
Father Virgil turned away from me. “I shall accompany you,”
Father Virgil said. “Her first lesson is finished, anyway. I’ll have
Sister Mary come down and undo her.”
“No! Don’t leave me!” I shouted. There was true panic in my
voice. My fear was deeper and more profound, I think, than even the
extraordinary fright I’d just felt, experiencing my ‘lessons.’ I
couldn’t let that fat, jealous old woman see me like this! The two
priests ignored my screams. Father Brannigan ascended the basement
steps. Father Virgil followed. Strangely, they walked with their
penises displayed. They were both rock-hard; I doubt they could have
restored themselves to the interior of their trousers even if they’d
wished it.
“Oh! Is it time for a bathroom break?” I heard an old woman
say when Father Brannigan opened the door at the top of the basement
stairs.
“Fetch the girl at your leisure. She is finished for now,”
Father Virgil announced.
There was a tromping on the stairs. With heavy feet Sister
Mary came down. I was still screaming for the men not to leave me when
Sister Mary’s face loomed over mine. It was fat and ruddy. It viewed
me with contempt.
“I must undo you,” Sister Mary said gruffly. “Then we will
upstairs and bathe again.” Without touching me, she moved down to my
bound legs. “You have runs in your stockings,” Sister Mary said. She
sounded angry. I had not put the runs in them, Father Brannigan had,
whipping me on my legs with his crop. No matter. The sister scolded me
for ruining my stockings. Then she moved back up to my head and reached
up over me and, standing on tip toes, managed to catch hold of the iron
shackles that held my arms suspended over my head.
My hands were released. I let them fall, relieved, to my
chest. Weeping, I found my wrists with my fingers. They were tender
from being hung up above me. Red marks showed on my wrists where I’d
struggled and twisted against my bonds to try to break free.
Sister Mary moved down to my ankles. She loosed the shackles
around them. The cold iron left my feet and I was able to move my legs
again. I closed them, contritely. I swore to myself I’d never open my
legs for a man again.
A calloused hand patted my tummy.
“Yooooch!” I shouted.
“Get up, child. Come upstairs with me. I must bathe you
again, and prepare you for dinner.”
“No!” I screeched. I tried to curl up in a fetal position.
Sister Mary laughed. “We are having sausage and saurkraut for dinner,”
she told me. “Not you.”
I stumbled up the stairs, Sister Mary holding my hand.
Somewhere, I heard the priests laughing. At me? At something else? I
didn’t know. Perhaps the kitten had caught a bird out by the bird
feeder and was consuming it.
30
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