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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: mar 7 Summer of Sin part 14 of 14 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
SUMMER OF SIN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Fourteen
I was due back in America in two weeks. I walked along the
boulevard, feeling the sunshine on my face. I passed under a tree and
turned a corner. It was then that I saw it. A huge, stone cathedral.
Ancient slabs of rock towered over me. Set within the rock were stained
glass windows. I admired the blue and red and green panes in the
windows. I felt awe, respect, admiration. I passed under a hideous
gargoyle perched in the keystone of the church’s doorway. I found
myself in shadow. I looked down an aisle between long rows of pews and
saw an altar in the distance. Two tall candles flickered slowly on the
altar, and, though I was too far back to see it, I imagined long streaks
of wax sliding with eternal patience down them.
I felt a sudden need to confess. God had been good to me, and
I’d repaid him with sin. I glanced around. I wasn’t Catholic. Was
there a priest anywhere? How exactly did one confess, anyway? Should I
just walk up to the altar and pray? Would someone see me?
“Yes, my child?” a sweet voice sang out. I turned, surprised.
I had concluded that I was alone in the church and now, suddenly, I
wasn’t. As I gazed into the face of an elderly nun I felt my sin was
written all over my 13-year-old cheeks.
“Is-- I’m Protestant, I’m sorry,” I apologized to the nun.
“Or, at least, my parents are. You know...”
“Yes?” the nun asked. There was bemusement on her features.
“Oh! I have sinned!” I blurted to her suddenly. I did not
wish to lie in the presence of a woman of God.
“Oh dear,” the nun said. She seemed genuinely concerned. “I
had thought perhaps you had lost your mother,” she said.
I frowned.
“I’m 13,” I told her. “I’m from America. I’m touring the city
by myself today.”
“Ah, things have changed since I was a child,” the nun said.
She patted her face. There was contrition in her eyes. “I had a
chaperone until I was 17,” she told me. She turned. She began walking
away.
“Wait!” I called after her.
The nun turned back toward me. “Come, child!” she said in a
voice that seemed slightly scolding. “Come, come. You must confess to
the priest if you have sinned.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.” I was about to tell her that I was
Protestant again, or rather that my parents were, and I was because they
were, but she seemed slightly senile and I let it go. I followed her
obediently, clutching my purse.
“Forgive me father I have sinned,” I said breathlessly in the
confessional when I was seated in it. My voice came out high,
school-girlish and uncertain. There was a shifting of robes behind the
dark screen of the confessional, where the priest sat.
“And how have you sinned, my child?” a male voice answered. I
was surprised by it. It was strong, bold. Deep. I had expected, I
guess, a voice as old as the nun’s, but male.
“I’ve--” I felt myself blush from head to toe. How could I
tell a man what I’d done? Silly me. What had I expected? A woman? An
old man? Yes, I must have expected some old, doddering fool. But this
man was young. I felt he must somehow be a priest by accident. I
fought with myself to find the words to tell him what I’d done.
In the event, he beguiled them out of me. He was slow and
patient. He told me to start with the least sinful thing I’d done. I
did. Gradually, we built up to my worst sins. By the end of two hours
I’d told him everything.
“And were there any other positions that you tried?” the priest
asked in a patient, solicitous voice.
“Not-- not that I can think of, sir,” I answered.
“You needn’t call me sir,” the priest reminded me for the
thousandth time. “I’m a priest.”
“Yes, father,” I said.
“Would you like to be free from the sin of your sexual vices?”
the priest asked me.
“Oh, yes!” I said, blushing in the privacy of my booth. “And,
um, could we possibly take a break too? I have to go to the bathroom.”
I heard the man on the opposite side of the screen clear his
throat.
“It is best not to speak so frankly about your natural
functions,” the priest told me.
“Yes, father,” I answered. “May I, uh, be excused, then?”
“On one condition,” the priest said. His words made me feel an
unexpected thrill down my back. I had not expected any conditions,
least of all on my toiletry needs. Weren’t priests supposed to be,
like, indulgent?
“What- what condition, father?” I asked.
“That we may speak privately in my office after your needs have
been met,” the priest told me. “About your sin, of course.”
“Of course, father,” I replied. I wondered what he would have
said if I’d told him no.
“Don’t take any longer than necessary,” the priest told me.
“Yes, father,” I said. I stood up. “Where? Where is your
office, sir?” I asked him through the confessional screen.
“Office number 6,” the priest replied.
“And the bathroom?” I asked.
“Sister Jameson will assist you,” the priest answered.
“Oh, yes! The nun. I forgot,” I told his shadowy form through
the dark, latticed wall of the booth.
“You are excused,” the priest answered.
“Thank you, father,” I said.
I left the confessional booth. There was a stone wall outside
the booth, so that, should the priest exit, he and the parishioner
should not meet. Only the latticed interior of the booth allowed
communication between what were, otherwise, two separate parts of the
church.
I found the nun. She showed me to the toilet. Afterward, I
considered leaving. I’d confessed. Had I recieved absolution? I
wasn’t sure. But I knew the confessing was the important part. At
least, in the movies I’d seen it was. But then, in the movies, the guy
confessing often got shot before his confessions were through.
I went searching for the priest’s office. The nun, I think,
had herself thought I’d leave the church after my visit to the bathroom,
and I couldn’t find her. Perhaps if I’d gone all the way out to the
front of the church I’d have found her again, but I guessed that the
priest’s office might be somewhere back where I was now, behind the
altar. I didn’t want to have to traipse all the way out to the church’s
front door. I might leave.
I turned down a hallway. I saw three doors. I guessed they
might be offices. Sure enough, I saw a number 4 on the first door I
encountered. A door with a 5 on it was next. Then 6. I paused. Very
softly, I knocked.
“Come in,” a manly voice said. I turned the handle. I cracked
the door. Respectfully I peeked inside. I gasped. Sitting behind a
big desk, was one of the hunkiest priests I’ve ever seen. He looked up
from a big black book he was reading, bound in leather. He lifted an
eyebrow.
“You must be Chloe,” the priest told me. His voice didn’t
sound as soft or compassionate as it had in the confessional.
“I-- I am, sir,” I answered.
“Yes, you must be,” the priest said, sounding slightly
annoyed. “You’re still calling me sir.”
“I’m sorry, father,” I said.
The priest rose up behind his desk. “Please come in, Chloe,”
he said. I stepped inside, nervously. “What’s that?” he asked. He
looked at my purse. It was fuzzy. It was in the shape of a bunny
rabbit and you put things into it through its mouth.
“It’s my rabbit purse,” I said. I blushed. I liked my purse.
It was really cute. But I felt like a little girl, suddenly, holding
it, and I blushed. He was a man. Would he think me just some
bothersome child, standing there with my ‘fuzzy wuzzy wabbit purse,’ as
I liked to call it?
“You are quite young, Chloe, but come in anyway,” the priest
told me. “From your confessions I’d expected someone, er, slightly
older.”
“I’m sorry, father,” I said. I gazed up at him with wide
eyes. His own gazed down at me severely. “I’ve been sinful.”
“Yes, you have, Chloe,” the priest told me. The priest reached
out to me. He took my nearest arm by the elbow. He guided me over to a
chair. It was large, well-stuffed. He sat me down in it and I felt
quite small. He sat in another chair, next to mine. He had a large
body and it settled into the chair firmly, with authority. He gazed at
me. I was just admiring his handsome build, his blonde, Nordic hair,
when another young man, also in priest’s robes, stepped out from behind
a book case. He was holding a prayer book in his hands and he looked up
from it as he stepped out from behind the wall of books.
“Ah, she’s here,” the other young priest said. He put down the
book he’d been reading on the desk of the priest who now sat beside me.
He walked over to a chair opposite me and sat down. I found myself
between the two of them, one on either side of me. I felt surrounded.
“Chloe, this is Father Brannigan, and I’m Father Virgil,” the
priest who’d heard my confession said. He reached out and placed a
large, firm hand on my own. His fingers encompassed mine. He enclosed
them. I felt warm inside his trap-like fingers.
“We have a school for certain girls,” Father Brannigan said.
“Girls who require special attention in unburdening themselves from
sin.” I turned from the blonde priest holding my hand to Father
Brannigan.
“A school?” I asked.
“You would be in attendance for several days,” Father Brannigan
said. He eyed me closely. He had black hair, dark eyebrows. He looked
even more formidable than the priest who was holding my hand.
“I-- I did not know I would have to go to school,” I said
frankly to Father Brannigan. “I have to be back in America in two
weeks. To start school there!”
“What year of school will you be starting?” Father Brannigan
asked me.
“Eighth,” I said.
Father Brannigan’s eyes widened. Then he seemed almost to
smile. He caught himself. I saw a gleam in his eyes and wasn’t sure I
liked it.
“Our school,” Father Brannigan told me, “Will allow you to
rejoin your peers without feeling guilty at having perhaps outstripped
them in the arts of love.”
“But you must be humbled, first,” Father Virgil added. “That
is the purpose of our school. To provide you with order and discipline
in your life.”
“Hopefully it will temper, if not erase, your memories of
wildness and indiscretion from earlier in the summer,” Father Brannigan
told me.
“By humbling you,” Father Virgil said. He squeezed my hand.
“Through humility you can be restored to innocence.”
“What-- what would I have to do?” I asked. I pulled on my
hand, enclasped and enclosed in Father Virgil’s big fingers, and found I
couldn’t extricate it from his grip.
“You would have to obey,” Father Brannigan told me. He
smiled. I shivered.
“Obey?” I gulped.
“Yes,” Father Brannigan said. “Obey myself and Father Virgil,
that is. We would attend to your lessons. An old woman would be the
only other person present. She will,” Father Brannigan said, switching
tenses, “attend to you between lessons. But you will not be able to
look to her for solace and forgiveness. Only Father Virgil and myself
can forgive you, if you perform your lessons accurately and well.”
“With humility,” Father Virgil added, still holding my hand. I
tried to pull it out of his grip again, and found I still could not.
“Sister Mary will know you are a sinner, seeking absolution,”
Father Brannigan told me. “She is old and cross. Do not look to her
for consolation. She serves myself and Father Virgil by serving you,
and only at our direction.”
“You would,” Father Virgil said, giving my hand a tight
squeeze, “be entirely under our control. That is the point Father
Brannigan is trying to make.”
“Is making,” Father Brannigan corrected.
“Is making,” Father Virgil agreed. “Our school is in an old
farmhouse, on the outskirts of town. It is on a plot of land owned by
myself and Father Brannigan. We are not the first to own it. A Father
Slade owned it before us. But he has passed on, and left it to us in
his will, knowing we would know how to make proper use of it.”
“As a school,” Father Brannigan said. “For young ladies like
yourself, who require special care and attention.”
“Have- have other girls gone to your school?” I asked. Father
Brannigan looked at Father Virgil.
“Yes,” Father Virgil said. “But ask no more of that. Each
girl is special. You will be the only girl there, during your visit.
Like I said, it will just be Father Brannigan and myself, plus Sister
Mary. She is not officially a nun, just a cleaning woman. But we call
her Sister Mary, and will expect you to as well.”
“If she were a nun, we could not be as free with your
instruction as events will no doubt require,” Father Brannigan said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I would have to ask my aunt...”
Father Brannigan reached over to a table next to his chair. He
handed me a brochure. It was titled, “Girls’ Self-Esteem Workshop.”
Underneath the title, it read: “Building Tomorrow’s Women!” There were
several girls, notably unattractive, staring out from the cover of the
brochure at me.
“We will drive you home and let you give this to your aunt,”
Father Brannigan told me. “It’s entirely fake. There is no such
workshop. But it’s highly effective in securing parental permission for
our school.”
“You will, of course, say nothing to her about our school,”
Father Virgil told me, still holding my hand. He squeezed it. “You’re
a big girl. Otherwise we would not be inviting you. You understand,
I’m sure, that most parents would not want their daughter spending
several days alone with two men.”
“Yes,” I said, in a hushed voice, gazing down at the brochure.
The girls stared dumbly back at me; one too fat, by a mile, another too
thin, another downright ugly, with freckles all over her face, and
braces, and red hair that looked as if it had never encountered a
brush. “Yes. It will just be us?” I asked, looking up.
“Yes, just us,” Father Brannigan assured me. “And Sister Mary,
of course.”
“I-- I don’t know,” I said. My voice quavered. “What-- what
sort of lessons would I be learning?”
“The lessons are designed to cleanse your soul,” Father
Brannigan told me. “They will be difficult. They will require your
utmost attention. You will need skill to complete them. But most of
all, you will simply require a desire to obey.”
“To obey?” I said. I heard a gasp in my voice.
“With humility,” Father Virgil said.
Father Brannigan rose. He stood over me. He reached down and
clasped my head with both his strong hands. I found myself face to face
with the zipper in his pants. His robes, open in front, hung off his
broad shoulders. “We will go meet your aunt now, Chloe,” Father
Brannigan told me. “You will give her the brochure. You will promise
to call her whenever you get the chance. But make no specific
promises. Tell her you’ll be very busy. Ask her not to annoy you
during your Self-Esteem Workshop, because you and the other girls will
be doing various projects.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, squeamishly.
Father Virgil tightened his grip on my hand.
“Chloe, this is where Father Brannigan and I take over,” he
said. “You have confessed your sin. Now it is time for us, as men of
God, knowing of the weakness of the flesh, to expunge you of your sin.
You will obey. You will not refuse this cleansing of your soul.”
“It is for your own good, Chloe,” Father Brannigan told me. To
test him I suddenly reached out with my lips and brushed them across the
tab of his zipper, which was slightly extended off the front of his
pants.
“Yes,” Father Brannigan told me. “You see? Even now you try
to sin. Woman is sinful from the time of Eve, and will be so
forevermore, I suppose, which is why our little school will always be
needed.” He tightened his grip on my head. He drew on my hair,
carefully, but firmly. I was forced to stand up. He did not want what
I had just offered him. Or perhaps, a thought which scared me, he did
want it, but possessed the patience to wait.
“Are you really a man of God?” I asked, looking up at the big
priest standing over me. His hands still gripped me by my hair. He
gazed down into my eyes.
“A man of God... and a man,” Father Brannigan said. Then he
broke our gaze and turned to Father Virgil. “Let’s go,” he said.
We went out. I walked between them. They held me by both my
hands. Father Virgil carried my purse.
Imagine my auntie’s surprise when I showed up at the door with
two priests! She was watering flowers in her house, dressed in a long,
flowing skirt and a modest blouse, with a scarf tied around her head.
She had on no makeup, though that hardly left her looking plain.
“Oh! Hello,” my aunt said. She surveyed me and the two hunky
guys standing on either side of me. They both held my hands. The
dark-haired one, Father Brannigan, had rung our doorbell.
“Good day, madam,” the two young priests said in unison.
“A fine day our Lord Jesus Christ has provided us with, is it
not?” Father Brannigan asked my aunt.
“Yes! Indeed!” my aunt said, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She looked at me. I gazed up at her and almost blushed, but didn’t.
Father Virgil held my ‘wabbit purse’ in his hand.
“Has... has she been bad?” my aunt asked worriedly.
“Your daughter has been to confession,” Father Brannigan said.
His voice was loud and strong in the warm summer air. The sun shone
brightly down upon both men, standing there on my aunt’s doorstep in
their black clerical robes. Older priests might have seemed compromised
by the sun, its rays illuminating their drooping faces, their grey,
bushy eyebrows. But these two young men, both of them rugged and
tanned, were enhanced by the sun. They stood proud and erect in their
black uniforms of God. They peered intently at my aunt, perhaps with
concern for her soul, perhaps with an unpriestly interest in her figure.
“Are you the woman of the house?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Yes-- Yes I am,” my aunt replied.
“You must have had her when you were very young,” Father Virgil
said, holding my hand, in a sympathetic voice.
“Oh! I am only her aunt,” my auntie answered. “She’s from
America. She’ll be going back soon. She only stayed with me for the
summer.”
“I hope it was not a sinful summer,” Father Brannigan said. My
aunt blushed.
“No. Not at all,” my aunt replied. “We, uh, went to church
every day. But we’re Protestant, not Catholic.”
Father Virgil looked at Father Brannigan. “I wasn’t aware the
Protestant parish was open every day,” Father Virgil said.
“Perhaps they have grown closer to God,” Father Brannigan
answered. He looked at my aunt. “Madam, may we come in? Your
daughter... your, uh, niece... sorry. She has requested our assistance
in procuring your permission to attend our church’s Self-Esteem
Workshop.”
“So I can be a woman of tommorrow,” I offered.
“Oh. Yes. Please do come in,” my aunt said. The priests
moved forward, myself between them. Father Brannigan slipped through
the front door first, still holding my hand. I followed. Father Virgil
came behind. Rebecca led us into her living room. She put down her
sprinkler can, that she’d been using to water the plants, on the floor.
“May I get you something to drink? Wine?” Rebecca asked Father
Brannigan and Father Virgil.
“Water, please,” Father Brannigan answered.
“But if you can turn water into wine...” Father Virgil began.
“Water,” Father Brannigan interrupted. “Water for both of
us.” We sat down on the couch.
“I’ll have Kool-Aid,” I told my aunt, sitting primly between
Father Brannigan and Father Virgil. She looked at me.
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “Orange or Tootie-Fruitie, dear?” she
asked.
“Tootie-Fruitie,” I said, gazing up at her. I held tightly
onto Father Brannigan and Father Virgil’s hands, as if she might take
them away from me. I was enjoying having two hunky guys hanging around
with me. My aunt gave me a strange look, like a mother does when she
thinks something’s afoot, but she went to fetch our drinks anyway.
“So tell me, gentlemen,” my aunt asked, when she’d served us
our drinks and settled onto the sofa opposite the one we were all
sitting on. She’d served my drink with a childish curly straw and I
sucked on it merrily. “Isn’t Chloe, my niece, a little young to attend
a Self-Esteem Workshop for women?”
“Oh-- not for women. It’s for girls,” Father Brannigan said.
“I’d love to attend,” Rebecca told the priests.
“Ah... you cannot. It would disrupt her educational progress,”
Father Virgil said.
“Oh.” My aunt drank from her glass of juice.
“Yes, the girls will have no certain schedule,” Father
Brannigan said. “Nights, days, they will be doing things all the time.
So don’t expect Chloe here to call you. In several days, when the
workshop is complete, we shall bring her home ourselves. I think you’ll
find she’s a new woman.”
“Purged of all sin,” Father Virgil said.
“Her body is, after all, a temple of the Lord, as the holy book
tells us,” Father Brannigan said.
“It’s important for a girl like Chloe to attend a workshop like
this as she approaches womanhood,” Father Virgil said.
“Yes. The Pope himself attended a workshop like this, when he
was a young man,” Father Brannigan said. “Now, as a modern Catholic
church, we’re pleased to offer a similar workshop for young girls.”
“My, that’s quite progressive of you,” my aunt said. But there
was a hint of suspicion in her voice. Perhaps it was due to the fact
that the priests’ eyes kept flitting down to her bosoms.
“It is a pity we didn’t make your acquaintance when you were
younger,” Father Brannigan said to my aunt. “You would have been an
excellent, uh, candidate for our workshop.”
“Yes,” Father Virgil agreed.
“Oh, is that so?” my aunt said. “Well, it’s such a pity that I
missed out on that opportunity, gentlemen. But I must tell you about my
niece, Chloe.” I squirmed in my seat. What was she up to? “She has
been very naughty,” my aunt said.
“Really?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Yes, do you know how she likes to go swimming?” my aunt
asked. Father Brannigan looked out the window of our living room at the
still waters of our pool, shimmering in the hot mid-day sun.
“No. How?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Topless!” my aunt said. “I have to force her to put her top
on. To keep her bosoms white,” my aunt said. “I tell her that her
breasts look much prettier with the skin white, so there is a contrast
between them and her arms and tummy, when she finds herself entertaining
a young gentleman with them.”
“Auntie!” I blurted.
“She has... uh... entertained young men with her... naked
breasts?” Father Brannigan asked.
“Why, she had a boyfriend, didn’t she? What was his name,
Chloe?” my aunt asked.
“Brad the Rad,” I said. “But--”
“I also tell her that her nipples, which are quite pink, look
prettiest that way, and if she exposes them to the sun they will darken
prematurely,” my aunt said. “But time and again I find her swimming
topless anyway. Even bottomless! One time the workmen came over to do
our lawn, and there was Chloe, like a little water sprite, dancing
around the pool and diving into it, in her bare skin!”
“Really!” both priests said, in unison. They both made
restless movements of their hips on the couch, as if their clothes were
suddenly binding them.
“I had to take her upstairs and spank her,” my aunt said. “Her
bottom was very red, after that. But do you know what she did?” My
aunt paused. She looked at me. She sipped her drink. I glowered at
her. The entire story, the whole thing, was made up. What was she
doing? Trying to kill me with embarrassment? (It’s not always good to
have an aunt who’s only 19.)
“No... what did she do?” Father Brannigan asked. His hips
squirmed as he spoke, as if he’d sat on a nail. His throat sounded
constricted.
“She yelled, ‘Ooooh! My bottom hoits!’ Just like that,” my
aunt said. She suppressed a smirk. “Then little Chloe, all bare and
naked, her bottom red from my hand, went running downstairs. She dashed
out back to the pool and plunged into it. To cool her bottom. Of
course, all four immigrant workmen were there, trying to do our lawn.
You can imagine the look on their faces. They wondered, too, if perhaps
they weren’t being invited to assist her in some way.”
“Yes,” Father Brannigan said.
“Which is why I think you should stay and have a swim,” my aunt
said.
“A swim?” Father Virgil asked.
“You could help her understand that she mustn’t swim topless,”
my aunt said. “It would help discipline her, having two priests
swimming with her.”
“We-- we haven’t any swimsuits,” Father Brannigan said.
“Swim in your underpants,” my aunt offered.
“Perhaps another time,” Father Brannigan answered. “We are not
averse to activities that promote good health. Perhaps another time we
shall pay a visit on you, madam, and remember to bring our swimsuits.”
I sensed our meeting was drawing to a close. I squirmed
impatiently between my two priests. Father Virgil held my hand, and my
purse.
“I hope my niece profits from your instruction,” my aunt told
the priests.
“I’m sure she’ll give it her utmost attention,” Father
Brannigan said. His water glass was empty.
“More water?” my aunt asked.
“No. We must go now. The workshop will be starting soon and
your neice can profit most if she’s on time,” Father Brannigan said.
“She does not need to change?” my aunt asked. She looked at
me. I rolled my eyes, growing bored with the whole idea of asking her
permission. I was, after all, 13. I should be able to spend time with
two hunky priests if I wished, without her interfering.
“The clothes she gave confession in will be fine,” Father
Brannigan told my aunt. There was reassurance in his voice. He smiled
at her.
“How convenient that she went to confession on the very day
your workshop is starting,” my aunt said.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Father Brannigan said. He
looked at his watch. “Oh! Good Lord! We shall miss the first Bible
reading if we linger.”
“Then you must go,” my aunt said. “It was nice of you both to
stop by and chat.” She rose. She looked at them, at me. We stood and
I gave her an impatient stare. She walked over to me and took my glass
with the childish, curled-up straw sticking out of it. “Are you sure
you don’t want any more Kool-Aid, Chloe?” she asked me.
“No, auntie,” I replied.
“Be good,” my aunt said. She leaned forward and kissed my
forehead. I sensed the priests looking into her blouse as it billowed
forth, exposing her breasts. She wore no bra underneath.
At the front door, as the two priests led me away, my aunt
called after them, “Let me know if there’s ever a workshop at the church
for grown women.” Father Brannigan turned.
“Most assuredly, madam, we will,” he said. He gave my aunt a
broad grin. His eyes lowered to her bosoms and lingered over them until
Father Virgil cleared his throat and caused him to turn. One of my
hands was free and I waved to my aunt. She waved back.
“Come along, child,” Father Virgil told me. He and I got into
the back of their car. It was black. There was a bright coat of polish
on it. Otherwise it was nondescript, looking like any other car you
might see travelling along a French lane. Father Brannigan got in
front. He started the car. We drove away.
Sitting in the back with me, Father Virgil produced a
blindfold. It was made of black silk.
“I must put this over your eyes,” Father Virgil told me. “The
location of our place of instruction is a secret.”
“I... like secrets,” I said. I gazed at the blindfold. He
lifted it to my face. “Can’t I see? Please?” I asked. My voice was
high-pitched, uncertain.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Father Virgil told me. He tied on the
blindfold. He made it tight. He checked its tightness, after it was on
me, and then loosened it just a bit. I heard a jingling sound. “I must
also cuff your hands,” Father Virgil said.
“Oh, but why?” I asked, my eyes covered by the blindfold.
“Shhhh, you must not ask any more questions,” Father Virgil
told me. “Otherwise I shall have to put a gag over your mouth. Your
lips are so pretty. I would not want to have to do that.” Father
Virgil took hold of my wrists. They felt small and frail in his big
hands, like wrists made of wishbone-thin bones that you find in a turkey
being eaten at Thanksgiving. Gently but firmly Father Virgil drew my
wrists behind me. I heard a click of metal. I tried to pull my hands
apart and found they were locked securely to each other, behind my
back. My breasts pressed hard into my blouse. My stomach tautened in
fear, making my ribs stick out under my blouse. I felt hands on my
thighs. They were calloused, rough, hard. They sleeked up my bare
legs. “You wear no stockings,” Father Virgil said to me.
“No,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Your skirt is quite short,” Father Virgil told me.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Your panties. Did you know that sometimes your skirt flips
up, in the breeze, and shows them?” he asked.
I gulped. “Yes,” I answered.
“Do you know what that does to a man, even to a priest?” Father
Virgil asked me.
“No...” I offered.
“It makes him want to take them off,” Father Virgil said.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” I cried.
“I’m afraid I must,” Father Virgil said. “You will be given
new ones at our school. Plus stockings, to impart a certain modesty to
your legs. They are very long and pretty. But, for now, I want you to
sit bare-bottomed on the seat of the car. It’s quite clean, I can
assure you. We keep it smooth and polished just for girls like
yourself. I want you to feel the warmth of the seat, heated from being
in the sun, directly on your ass. Do you know why I want you to feel
it?” Father Virgil asked me.
“No,” I breathed.
“To aid in your contrition,” Father Virgil said. “You see, at
our school, your bottom will be heated with a strap. I want you to feel
the hotness of the sun-heated seat on your bottom, and to think of the
strap.”
“Oh! You mean I am to be spanked?” I gasped. Father Virgil
tugged on my panties. He forced me to lift my bottom, slighlty, and
eased them off the back of my fanny. He pulled them down my legs. The
center portion of my undies was caught in my snatch and he kept pulling,
slowly, until my panties freed themselves from my slit. He drew them
down my legs. I settled on the seat and gasped as I felt its sun-warmed
surface directly on my bare cheeks.
“You will be disciplined, to make you a good wife,” Father
Virgil told me. “But do not think of the strap itself. Think of the
sin it will remove from your soul as it licks across your bottom.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be spanked,” I said truthfully. Father
Virgil made me lift my feet. He drew my panties down my calves.
Carefully he pulled them over my spiked heels.
“You do not have to worry, no one will hear,” Father Virgil
told me. “Our place of instruction is quite secluded.”
“It’s not--” I began, meaning to say that, while I certainly
didn’t want anyone hearing me screaming, I also didn’t want my bottom
smacked. But I never got to finish, because Father Virgil put my
panties to my lips. I drew my head back, alarmed.
“Open your mouth,” Father Virgil said.
“But they’re my panties!” I cried. Father Virgil put his big
hand to my face. He pressed on my cheeks, forcing my mouth into an O.
I sniffed my panties and then felt them intruding between my lips. A
large finger stuffed them between my teeth.
“There. You may close now,” Father Virgil said. He compressed
my small mouth, closing my jaw. I tasted my panties on my tongue. They
made my cheeks bulge. “Such a convenient place for a girl to put her
panties,” Father Virgil said. “It’s too bad they’ll get wet. But then,
they were rather wet already, weren’t they?” he asked me. I felt a need
to be truthful. I nodded, blushing.
I felt Father Virgil open a small box next to my feet. It was
sitting on the floor of the car. He took something from it. “Although
I want your bottom to be warm,” Father Virgil told me. “There is
another part of you that must not be allowed to be warm. For if your,
shall we call it your fruit, for the sake of modesty? If the fruit of
your womb, between your legs, is warm, we know that is sinful, don’t
we?” I felt myself nod. “Very well,” Father Virgil said.
“Fortunately, I have something here to keep your fruit cool.” I heard
him pop a cap off of something. “Spread,” Father Virgil told me, for
while my legs weren’t crossed, they were fairly close together. I
opened them. His hand went up under my skirt. I wondered what he was
holding. I felt something cool and round, like a cylinder, brush my
thighs. Something sharp bumped my cunt and I gasped. My panties lay in
my mouth, wet cloth on my tongue.
SPLURRRT! I heard. At the same moment I let out a cry,
through the suffocating cloth of my panties, for something cold and wet
spurted all over my cunny.
“Oooooh!” I shouted.
“Relax. It’s only whipped cream,” Father Virgil told me. “It
will keep you cool as we travel along. So your pussy doesn’t become
warm and sinful.”
“Mmmmmf,” I said through my panties. The cream was quite
chilly against my cunt. It intruded into my slit, making the inner
walls of my fig feel all wet and slimy and cold.
A sharp nozzle pushed up between the lips of my cunt. It lay
snug and poised there, pushing into my sex, all rude and hard.
Splurrrt! I heard again. It was a small, tentative squirt
this time. A dollop of cream jetted into my fig’s inner recesses.
“Yes, just like sperm. Except this will keep you nice and cool
and chaste,” Father Virgil assured me. He drew back a little, then let
loose another squirt from his can. “There,” he said. “I want you to
think of the forgiveness of our Lord as we travel,” he said. “Don’t
worry. If you need more cream, I’ll introduce it into your sex. Do you
have to pee?” he asked me. I nodded that I did not. “Good,” Father
Virgil said. “What a pity it would be if we had to stop the car and you
had to squat by the side of the road and try to pee through all this
cream covering your pussy. I’m sure you’d like some on your bottom too
but, as I said, the warm seat is intended to make you speculate on what
the strap will feel like when Father Brannigan applies it to your ass.
How it will sting, eh? Think of all the bad things you’ve done, so that
you can more readily offer them up to God and beg his forgiveness when
you’re tied bottom-up in your bed at our school.” Father Virgil put a
hand up under my blouse and patted my flat belly. “Yes,” he said.
“Flat on your tummy you’ll be, with pillows under your hips, lifting up
your bare naked ass to Father Brannigan’s strap. But don’t worry. Like
I said, the beating will take place in your bed. It’s a big, soft,
comfortable bed. Every effort will be made to keep you in the utmost
luxury, at our school. You will be attended to every moment, pampered
even, spoilt, perhaps, if it’s possible to spoil a young girl like
yourself who’s already seen every advantage in life. But you must not
confuse the comfort you are provided with as a lessening of our will to
discipline you.” Father Virgil pressed a big finger into my navel.
“One day you will be with child,” he said to me. He kissed my cheek.
“You are lucky you’re not already with child, given what you’ve been up
to. Don’t worry. Father Brannigan and I will see to your moral
education. You will be a fine, chaste young woman when we’re through
with you. Ready to return to America and take your place in the eighth
grade with other girls, girls perhaps who haven’t been as sinful as you
have. What a benefit that will be, eh?” He patted my tummy. “Don’t
expect to sit down your first week of school, though,” he added. He
laughed. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or just pulling my
chain. He was certainly squirting my pussy! I cringed, wished my cunt
wasn’t all covered with chilly whipped cream. Our car turned off a
paved road and onto one lined with gravel.
After more than a few turns, and a good half hour of driving,
our car stopped. Father Virgil helped me get out. I felt the sun on my
face. I smelled farm animals. I heard a dog barking. Father Virgil
untied my blindfold. I blinked my eyes. He did not remove my
handcuffs. I gazed at my surroundings. We were parked in front of a
ramshackle farm. I wondered at the luxury Father Virgil had spoken of.
This looked like an old house, with a barn beside it, nothing more. He
pushed me forward. I stumbled in my high heels in the grass. A dollop
of cream detached itself from my pussy and plopped into the weeds at my
feet. Father Virgil caught my arm and guided my steps. Father
Brannigan, getting out of the car, followed us.
We stepped up onto a porch. Father Virgil knocked on the front
door. We waited patiently. I listened to the dog, still barking,
somewhere. Father Brannigan came up beside us. He stood on one side of
me. Father Virgil stood on the other side of me. I gazed at the front
door. It was made of wood. Finally I heard a bolt being drawn back on
the other side of the door. It swung open. A woman, middle-aged, fat,
her hair drawn up in a tight bun, gazed out at us. At that very moment,
more whipped cream fell from between my legs. It hit the door mat we
were standing on. The woman ran her eyes down my bare legs and looked
at the cream.
“She’s dripping,” the woman said. “She’s making a mess on my
door mat.” I looked down and saw ‘Home Sweet Home’ woven into the door
mat.
“She is sinful and requires correction, Sister Mary,” Father
Brannigan said.
“I should say so!” Sister Mary bellowed. “Please, bring her
inside. I’ll see to it that she’s prepared for your strap.”
“Thank you,” Father Virgil said. He pushed me through the
door.
“Wait!” I cried, over the panties stuffed in my mouth.
“Don’t drip all over my rug,” Sister Mary warned me. I clipped
my legs together. The cream between my thighs squished and I felt more
of it run down between my legs. Father Brannigan and Father Virgil
stepped inside, but they no longer had possession of me, though Father
Virgil still held my purse.
“Where are your panties, girl? In your mouth?” Sister Mary
scolded. “That’s a strange place for them.” She opened my lips. She
drew out my underpants. “They’re all wet!” she said. She turned me.
“My heavens,” she said. “The priests even found it necessary to put
cuffs on your wrists. You must be a bad one.” She lifted my skirt.
She gazed at my naked bottom. “What? Not a mark upon it? No wonder
you’re so naughty. We can fix that, though. Upstairs, girl! I’ll have
to put you straightaway in the bath. Get all this cream out from
between your legs. Then we’ll see what the Fathers intend to do about
your education. You need plenty of it, in my opinion!”
“Please,” I said.
“Don’t speak,” the woman told me. “Look how short your skirt
is. Is that what you girls run around in these days? Without even
stockings on? Well, here you will wear a proper school uniform. A
summer uniform, admittedly. We have no air conditioning in the house.”
She tsked, turned me, gazed at my hips, my skirt uplifted by her hands.
“Look at this skimpy tan line on you, girl,” Sister Mary said. “What do
you wear to the beach? A string bikini? Good Lord!”
Sister Mary filled a tub for me upstairs and I bathed myself.
She watched me the entire time. I felt embarrassed. She sat on the
toilet to watch me. Her heavy rump rested on its fur-covered seat. She
used the toilet merely to sit down, not to relieve herself, its lid
closed. Her eyes ran over my slim-limbed body as I washed myself. She
seemed jealous of me, my youth, my figure.
30
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