Nun Pussy Ch. 05

“We have not been required to atone in such a manner,” said Sister Myriam. “The duty falls on me to abase myself and seek atonement for all the convent and then have the evil I have done strapped from me, painfuly, on the broadness of my bottom.”

“We have all known the strap on our tender tether parts,” said Sister Maria Clare.

“We seek the ecstasy of the strap upon our bare bottoms,” said Sister Elsbeth. “It is in our nature to crave that to supplant other cravings that might be sinful in other eyes.”

“It is our pennance to bare our bottoms to the strap,” said Sister Maryam. “A stinging pennace we all endure,” echoed Sister Elsbeth.

Sister Rosemary smiled. “The strap for some, is an end in itself. For others, it only warms our parts to seek further excitement.”

“Which brings on a greater reward,” said Sister Maryam.

“‘Tis a good pennance,” said Sister Rosemary. “I gladly present my broad arse for punishment. I relish every slap of the leather. Many nights, I crave it.”

“Someone always stands ready to oblidge with the strap,” said Sister Maryam. “I love strapping a bare arse and seeing the red stripes criss-crossing the tender flesh when I lay on with a will.”

“Which is no sin,” put in The Good Mother. “That craving also finds relief by being addressed in the proper tongue.”

“Praise the lord,” breathed Sister Rosemary, “for our moistened, hairy slots.”

“From this exchange, alone, my cunt drips its honey,” said Sister Myriam.

“And mine,” confessed Sister Megan, “sorely need a fingering or perhaps a good candling to the rear.”

“I hated it when they first held me over The Good Mother’s lap and whipped my naked buns,” said Maria Clare . “I cried and struggled and they all laughed at my pain and embarassment as they took turns laying it on.”

“She did not sit comfortably for a week,” said The Good Mother.

“Then we warmed her with another session,” laughed Sister Rosemary.

“Soon she was kneeling, hoisting her habit and praying for the strap, ” said Sister Maryam.

“Bare buns high in the air, begging for it,” said Sister Rosemary.

“Then we gave her her first candeling,” said Sister Maryam. “With her arse raised high we put the candle to her in that tiny nether hole until she could take no more and her ass was truly fucked.”

“Till I was too weak to walk and too sore to sit,” breathed Maria Clare.

“But she took to it like a bitch in heat,” said Sister Maryam.

“Elsbeth is the keeper of the candles,” said The Good Mother, “Sister please bring them on let us tickle and invade that passage the strap has awakened and opened for us.

They lay Rachael, the Novitiate, on the altar and examined carefully the open font of her womanhood. Each sister appraised the young beauty’s golden triangle and the bruised slit it decorated. Each touched the parted hairs and the delicate crack between her thighs with a stiffened finger and then brought that diget to her lower, pouting lips.

“First you must be candled,” soothed Sister Elsbeth.

“Candled by each of us,” added Sister Rosemary.

“It will prepare you for your wedding night,” whispered Sister Myriam.

“If you are to become a sister of Christ, You must first become his bride.”

“You must suffer the mighty prick of Jesus as it tickles to the depths of your cunt,” proclaimed The Good Mother.

“He must be lodged in that holy font you have reserved for him, symbolically that is,” added Sister Elsbeth.

“What a solid symbol you‘ll receive that night,” said Sister Megan.

“By a full twelve inches of his holy prick,” said Sister Elsbeth, “we will know your measure.”

“As ours has been sorely taken,” said Maria Clare.

“The first time I thought it would split my tender, young cunt,” tittered Sister Rosemary.

“By now it would hold a dozen such,” added Elsbeth.

“As would yours,” said Rosemary, “Your inner lips sag as much as mine.”

“I bled profusely,” bragged Sister Megan. “I had hardly been stretched at all before I mounted that thing on the cross.”

“You frighten me,” said Rachael.

“As you can see, child,” said The Good Mother, “We all have lived through it and are the better for it.”

“Let us prepare her,” said Elsbeth.

“Candle her and stretch that place for the monstrous prick she must take between those tender lower lips,” said Rosemary.

“And become the Sister of The Christ but first his bride. Only the chosen few consumate their marriage upon the prick of our lord.

*** The other sisters, long past their wedding night with their groom came naked as they were commanded to be in his presence. Soon the novitiate would be led to the figure with the huge wooden phallus projecting upward and would be lifted by her sisters to be lowered upon that rigid object that would invade her until nothing was left exposed but the carved wooden balls of the grotesque figure on the cross. The pain would be overwhelming, she knew. She only hoped that she could bear it as well as she knew others in the room had in their younger days.

“You approach your mating with the holy phallus of the Christ himself,” said Maria Clare.

“I am to be bethrothed?” asked Rachael. “So soon?”

“You will soon be one with us,” said Sister Rosemary.

Sister Maryam entered the cell. “You have but one crucifix to mount.”

“To be impaled upon,” said Sister Rosemary.

“Using that place unbreached by man and saved for the one true prick of our salvation.”

Sister Maria Clare remembered her ordeal. She winced as the girl was led forward, supported by Sister Myriam and Sister Rosemary. They lifted her to face the statue and The Good Mother guided her down upon the stout wooden phallus that had been librally oiled for the occasion.

Rachael could not believe how large it was, far larger than it looked. She knew it expanded and tore at her tender parts stretched her to the limit. She bit her lip, determined she would not release the scream filling her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the sisters lowered her inch by inch on the stout peg rending her in two. As the last inch disappeared inside her, the new bride of The Christ fortunately fainted.

*** A trickle of blood escaped the gaping tender lips recently stretched beyond their limits. Sister Maria Clare blotted at the seepage of red and longed to kiss the tender slit so recently riven by the now bloody phallus.

Rachael, the youngest bride to survive her wedding night, moaned and opened her eyes. She blinked and her hand went to her groin. “How long must it remain in me? I am full to bursting with that monstrous thing.”

“It is no more with you,” assured Maria Clare. “You have passed the ordeal and your hymen is no longer with you and you are truly The Christ’s new bride.”

The End