Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff /
Story Codes: Mf, f/f, F/f, Drunk/Drugged, FF, FDom, Spanking, Oriental, First, WS, Voyeurism /
Copyright: © 2013 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff
Synopsis: Catholic school does something to a girl / It is Holy Week at Saint Agnes Academy, and Kristen, a freshman, is struggling to keep a lid on her most sinful thoughts. Sister Patrice, her religion instructor, discovers her weakness, and together they find a way to confront temptation /


The Saint Agnes Passion

Chapter 2

The only sex you may have

Father White paused. He tapped the cursor back, added a word, and went on.

The only sex you may lawfully have is vaginal intercourse, with your husbands, that is open to the transmission of life.

He thought that over. Satisfied, he continued:

That means none of you should experience sex until far in the future, after high school, after college. Some of you will experience really good sex only three or four times in your life, when you are most receptive to conception. A few of you will never experience sex at all.

Tough shit.

Crude, but he could clean it up on delivery. Or he might go with it, just to keep the sluts’ attention.

I know for most of you that will not be good enough. You will sin with boys you do not love, and who do not love you, who want only one thing. You will sin with your hands. You will sin with an abominable toy that some greedy devil has manufactured just for the purpose.

He had seen those toys with his own eyes, at the shop inside the strip club. What kind of society tolerated things like that?

The current generation of young women is too sexualized, and it is up to you to stop the trend, to learn chastity, to submit to your husbands. You think your sexuality is power, but it is a trap.

Your music is obscene, the pop stars you idolize are no better than prostitutes, and too many of you emulate them in your dress.

He moved the cursor back again.

immodest dress. Even in the uniform of Saint Agnes, you wear your skirts too short, flaunting your legs at unsuspecting men.

Once more, the cursor went back:

weak, unsuspecting men.

He had watched them moments ago, as school was letting out, through the doorway to his office. The halls were full of fresh young skin — white, most of it, white and privileged, seasoned with black and yellow and brown, an interracial stew of burgeoning sexuality. The girls chattered like sparrows, ignoring him — not even a “Happy Easter, Father” as they passed his door — but what enraged him was that they had no idea of the effect they had on him. Or they knew and didn’t care. They were probably sitting on their buses right now, laughing at him: “Hey, did you see creepy old Father White staring at us? We are so fucking hot!”

You little sluts. Amen.

He leaned back in his red-leather chair, but it didn’t go far before it hit the windowsill: the office was tiny. It wasn’t even an office. It had been used to store books before Mother Claire, Saint Agnes’ principal and president, insisted he have his own space in which to counsel the girls, as if they’d ever honestly confess their filthy secrets to him.

He had objected. He was only here two days a week, he said, spying for the diocese, but Mother Claire’s ostentatious humility would not be denied. She called on student volunteers to clear the place out, and she tacked a crucifix to the scuffed bare walls. She had even insisted he take her antique maple desk, which wouldn’t fit through the doorway. It had to be dismantled and carried in piece by piece. It was absurdly large, blocking off the end of the narrow ex-closet, a vast desert of a desk that held nothing all week but Father’s laptop. The drawers were empty, except for his bottle and a stack of plastic cups.

He saved his sermon as “Retreat,” with the date, and, clicking on “My Photos,” began scrolling through the pictures he had downloaded of young girls marching around a pool somewhere on the Riviera. They were contestants in some kind of junior beauty pageant. Each girl carried a placard with a large number on it. Father White was especially fond of No. 2.

They were naked, but they knew no shame.

He rubbed himself through his pants. He couldn’t take out his dick with the door open, but he preferred not to wank, anyway. He liked the rough feel of his hand through the fabric, the deliberate buildup of pressure, like a looming judgment.

The knock was so tentative he dismissed it. No one ever came to see him, and he didn’t want to be interrupted. But it came again, louder, and he glanced up, suppressing his annoyance.

The Irish pixie was standing in the doorway.

“Sister Patrice.”

“I’m not interrupting, am I, Father?”

“Not at all. I was just finishing my sermon for your retreat tomorrow. What may I do for you?”

“This is Miss Susan Nguyen.”

She stood to one side and pushed a tiny student toward him —a bronze oriental, with hair down to her ass, who made him want to finish his business right then. He closed his computer top.

“And what is Miss Nguyen’s issue?”

“Miss Nguyen has an off-color sense of humor,” Sister said, “and she has been passing notes in class.”

She handed him the offending paper over the desk. He reached for it, anxiously aware of his erection. The slightest move made it throb.

“This is outrageous,” he said. “More than outrageous. It is sacrilege. To speak about a nun — a nun — as a sexual object this way. It’s a disgrace. Do you think this is funny? … Well?”

“I don’t know,” the dumb thing said.

“You bad ones never know anything when you are caught. What shall we do with her, Sister?”

“I was hoping you could work this end,” Sister said. “I have her compatriot waiting for me back in the classroom.”

“You take care of her,” Father said. “Leave this one to me.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Close the door on your way out.”

Father White knew how this would go. A few pointed questions, and the child would weep in a touching display of remorse. He would be understanding, but firm, rebuilding her chastened ego in the image of the Church. She would accept, gratefully, every penance he imposed. He would end the session with a gentle joke, and she would smile at him through her tears, redeemed.

“You may place your books on my desk.”

But he did not invite her to sit. She stood reflected in the polished maple plane, her arms at her sides.

“Now, Miss—”


“What is that?”

“My name,” she said.

“Don’t be smart. I meant what nationality.”


“Interesting. Your family were refugees, then.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you like it here in our country?”

“I was born here,” she said.

“Yes, yes, of course. Now, then, Miss, uh —”


“Nguyen. How do you spell that? Never mind — you seem unaware of the seriousness of what you’ve done. I will have to call your parents.”

“It’s just my mom.”

“All right, your mother. How do you think she’ll react when she sees this? How embarrassed will she be?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you? A single mother, she must work very hard. Do you think she has saved and sacrificed to send you here, to this excellent school, just so you can disrespect your teachers in such a prurient fashion?”

“Uh uh.”

“Speak properly when a priest addresses you. The correct response is, ‘No, Father.'”

“No, Father.”

How had he lost control of this situation? The girl’s defenses were impenetrable. She was either stupid, or hopelessly corrupt. And she didn’t look stupid. A foretaste of tomorrow’s sermon would be just the thing.

“You young women today, your whole generation, are too highly sexualized,” he began. “The music you listen to is obscene, and the singers are no better than prostitutes. You emulate them in your dress, flaunting your bodies at weak, unsuspecting men. You — you, right now, wearing the uniform of this great school, your skirt is too short, flaunting your legs — Wipe that smirk off your face.”

The girl sighed impatiently, and the smirk flattened into a bored pout as she lifted up her skirt. He had guessed right about one thing, at least: her underwear was indecent. It was nothing but an eye-patch, of Easter purple, skin-tight and cloven like the devil’s hoof at the point where it vanished between her legs.

“Lower your skirt immediately.”

But she kept it up, and he kept looking.

“You are a brazen whore,” he said without much conviction.

“What’s it gonna take to get me out of here?”

“What are you offering?”

She gave him a full-on smile and crawled across his desk like a kitten.

“Hey, what have you been doing?” she said, looking over the beaded edge at the unmistakable roll in his pants, which was slightly out of alignment with fly, pointed at one o’clock. She turned about, and, sweeping the computer aside, sat facing him on the desk, her skirt in a broad bow across her hips. Pads of goose skin bulged around the vertical purple strap. Hairless. She shaved. One of her shoes hit the floor. She brought up a white-stockinged foot and pressed it to the end of his dick. Her tongue glimmered against her lower lip — an expression of minute concentration — as she flexed her toes.

“Like that?” she said.


“Speak properly when a brazen whore addresses you,” she said. “The proper response is, ‘Yes, Ma’am.'”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I like it when guys get stupid.”

She ground in, as though stepping on a worm, but he found the strength not to come — not yet, not before he had touched and tasted her. With an effort he pried her foot away and reached for her with both arms. The strings that held the eye-patch in place were tight and snapped at her hips as he tried to grip them. She raised her butt, and the back strap rolled out of the crack of her ass. The thong came off one foot and hung from the toes of the other, which she brought to his face.

Worshipfully, he gripped the heel and instep and kissed the high arch. His hand went up her raised leg. He lingered at border of her stocking and thigh, charmed by the contrast of white and dusky amber, but soon moved on to the bald patch over her cunt. There was something there — a bright blemish. He pushed her skirt back. It was a yellow butterfly, meticulous in detail, with veins and spots, but so small that when she grew her hair back, it would disappear. The wings were spread symmetrically over the end of her slit.

“I didn’t think girls your age could get tattoos.”

“I didn’t want it,” she said. “But my uncle brought a guy over. They held me down and shaved me, and the guy drilled me with that gun.”

“Why would your uncle do that?”

“He started molesting me when I was six.”

“You poor thing! Did it hurt?”

“It hurt like fuck,” she said. “It’s OK now. Guys think it’s hot.”

So, she was beyond redemption. He could do as he pleased with a clear conscience.

He knelt in front of her. Her outer lips formed a compact circle, no bigger than the mouth of a spice jar, bursting with the swollen spirals of cinnamon-colored leaves. He separated them with two fingers, and a pearly grain emerged, thick with mucus. He blew on it softly. She tensed up with a low laugh. Now she was the one being teased. He felt in control again.

At the touch of his tongue, her clitoris withdrew into its nest. He knew where it had to be, but he couldn’t pick it out through the wet maze of skin. No matter. He licked everywhere, and she responded with her whole body, leaning back on the desktop, supporting herself with her hands behind her. Her long hair spread like an oil slick across the polished surface. He jammed his face hard between her legs.

“Fuh-uck” she breathed.

Not so smart now, are you, you little bitch? Tamed and docile under the touch of God’s representative on Earth. Fucking whore. Come for Father.

Her back arched, and her little tits stood up. She threw her legs out and her head back and chuffed: “Huh! Huh! Huh!”

Straight to fucking hell. But if not for me, then for someone else. Someone who can’t absolve you afterward.

“Wow,” she said. “You’re good at that, for an old guy.”

“Don’t underestimate old guys.”

Standing up, he pulled her top from her skirt ran his hands up over her titties. Her bra felt soft and glossy. He raised the shirt, so it rested on her tits, and saw: the bra the same shimmering purple as her thong. Slut underwear. There should be a rule against it. The girls should be required to wear only plain white cotton, and he would be only too happy to perform inspections.

She resisted his kiss, clamping her mouth shut as he tried to force in his tongue. That was OK: he was being too rough with her, and he probably needed to shave.

He reached back to undo her bra, but he was helpless in such matters.

“It doesn’t have a hook,” she said.

She pulled it up for him, and her brown breasts peeped out beneath her shirt. They were hardly worthy of the name, barely big enough to get his mouth around, with wide, black areolas that made think of pumpernickel communion wafers. But the nipples stood up invitingly, and the dark circles wrinkled and hardened as he chewed and sucked on each in turn.

She reached down and undid his pants, which fell halfway down his thighs. His dick flopped out through the fly of his boxers. To get them off, he had to flip the damned thing back into the slot and out again over the waistband. It was God’s joke, long and awkward and always getting in the way. But the way it felt

“Ooo,” the girl said.

She took him gently in hand. Her loose fingers whispered along his shaft, and when she reached the end, she gave him a squeeze and a tug.

“Ooo,” he said.

He had to sit down. The girl slid off the desk and sat on her heels below him, one shoe off and one shoe on. She jerked his pants off his knees. He was afraid to ask for the obvious, but this schoolgirl, more sexually experienced than he, knew what he wanted. She gripped his cock at the base, and, rising on her knees, levered it toward her parted lips.

Then the office door opened, and Sister Patrice stumbled in.

“Chuck, I have to talk to you—”

‘Hey! Don’t you knock!?”

“You’re alone.”

And he realized that, over the broad desktop, she could see nothing — not his exposed lower half, and not the crouching 14-year-old who was about to make this the happiest day of his life.

God bless Mother Claire.

“Sorry I snapped,” he said. “But you startled me. And it’s only polite. I could have been hearing the girl’s confession.”

“Where is she?”

“I sent her home.”

“She left her books.”

They were still on the corner of the desk.

“Yes,” he said, his mind in a whirl. “Yes, she did. Well … she was upset. Remorseful and all that.”

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

“I have a way of getting through to young people.”

He brought his chair forward, bottling the girl up in the spacious kneehole below the desk.

“Sit down,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She fell into one of two scuffed chairs.

“I have done a wicked thing,” she said.

“Would this be in the nature of a confession?”

“Yes. Give me a shot.”

“You want a drink?”

“Oh, dear God, yes.”

“What makes you think—”

“Please don’t play games.”

He brought out the bottle and cups and poured them each a tall one. The problem was how to pass it to her getting up. He bent low, sliding the cup toward her, almost touching the desk with his nose as he extended his arm.

“I haven’t had good whiskey since high school,” she said.

She took a desperate swallow.

“Ugh — and I still haven’t.”

He sipped his and cradled the cup at his stomach.

“Your confession?” he prompted her.

The nun crossed herself.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last confession. In that time, I have sinned with a young girl in my class.”

Is this what I hope it is?

“Sinned how?”



She nodded in shame.


“When did this happen?”

“Just now. Minutes ago. In the classroom.”

“And who—”

“I don’t know if you know her. She’s a tall girl—”

“The one with the long legs, yes. You have good taste.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, of course not.”

“You know my demons,” she said. “And she is such a damned heartbreaker, with those big doe eyes and that pert bottom. I’ve been resisting her all year. — What’s wrong?”

He had started in his chair, a reaction to a misty tickling at the end of his dick.

“Cramp,” he said. “I’ve been sitting a long time.”

He batted furtively at the girl’s head, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She had him firmly in hand. Below the border of black hair, the golden forehead and the flattish nose, her tongue flickered like a flame at the end of his wick.

“Tell me,” he said, “exactly what you did.”

“What’s to tell?” she said. “I told her her friend was a bad influence. She started to cry, and I—”

“Comforted her.”

“She was frightened, and I took advantage of it.”

The girl’s lips closed around his penis. Her tongue flattened against the underside, wet and warm, with the subtlest texture. He could feel every tiny papilla on his sweet spot.

“It was crazy,” the nun went on. “She was crying, and I was holding her, and before I knew it, I was kissing her on the mouth and putting my hand up her skirt. And I gave her some bullshit story about testing her willpower, for a fookin’ vocation. — What was that?”

The girl’s head had bumped the top drawer. But she kept on, wrenching him down for easier access. She began jacking him, slowly, lubing him with spit. It was a miracle he didn’t pass out.

“Just uncrossing my legs,” he said. “Now, how did she react to this?”

“What difference does that make?”

“If she encouraged you, you’re less guilty, in the eyes of God. Was she frightened? Did she resist?”

“She came in my hand. Is that what you wanted to hear? My fingers reek of her.”

“I was wondering why you keep sniffing them,” he said.

Caught, she lowered her hand and gripped the armrest.

“What am I going to do? … Chuck?”


“Is something wrong?”

“Just thinking.”

The slick hand pulled at his swollen glans, retreated, and the watering mouth took its place. The slick hand pulled at his swollen glans, retreated, and the watering mouth took its place. The slick hand pulled at his swollen glans…

“Prayer,” he said. “We need to pray. Hard. Very hard. So hard … Almighty God … We beseech Thee…”


His cock twitched, shuddered, spat. Bolts of his being shot into the void. His mind darkened an instant, and in the blackness he saw the outstretched arm of the Creator, the stars and planets and galaxies gushing from His fingertips.

All at once, his head cleared.

“I want you to forget about this,” he said. “Say the rosary this evening, as many times as you can. Do any other penance you wish. It was an isolated incident, a lapse. I see no reason for it ruin anyone’s life.”

“And if she mentions it to anyone—?”

“Then we’ll face it together. I wouldn’t worry. If she enjoyed it as you say, she’s probably too ashamed to speak up. Pray with me.”

They recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be. He blessed her, and they tossed off their drinks.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Some. Thank you.”

“Get some rest. Pray.”

And the instant she was gone, he slammed his chair back against the wall.

“God damn you!”

She was curled on her back, her head propped against the blank inner wall of the desk, flashing him her pussy and asshole. With his chair no longer blocking her, she unfurled her legs and stretched out at his feet.

“What in the hell! She … We could have—”

She beamed smugly at his sputtering rage. No shame. His come spotted her shirt, and drops of it clung like opals to her tits, her face. She plucked a gob from her hair and raised it to her lips.

“Oh, Father,” she cooed, “I hafta go to confession, too!”