Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff /
Feature Title: THE SAINT AGNES PASSION 6 /
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 6

The car slowed down as it passed. The driver, a bald guy with gray stubble on his face, leaned across the passenger seat and called through the window.

“Need a ride, hon?”

Kristen ignored him, facing down the street as if looking for her bus. Baldie drove on. It was the third offer she’d had since she’d been sitting here. The guys were creepy, but in a weird way she liked the attention. It meant she looked good, and she wanted to look good — for Patty.

Of course, at her age, and with her body, it didn’t take much. She was dressed simply, in a loose-knit gray sweater, red sneakers and socks, and black cargo pants. She had showered, and she smelled like roses.

Patty had told her to wait at the bus stop a half-mile from school. They would meet here and go to lunch, then to a museum or a movie. Kristen had a fantasy about necking in the theater, and Patty feeling up her tits like a horny boy. To make it easy for her, she wasn’t wearing a bra, or a shirt. Her bare skin shone through the gray mesh of her sweater, and anyone who bothered to look could see the copper brads of her nips. The guys in the cars bothered, and right now, Kristen wished her hair were as long as Suzie’s. She crossed her arms. Maybe it was a mistake to leave the house so exposed, but now that she’d seen men’s reactions, she was dying to see Patty’s.

That is, if Patty ever showed up. She said she’d here at a quarter to two, after Good Friday prayers, and it was almost two-thirty. Kristen was hungry. The metal bench was starting to hurt her butt. She’d let three buses go by, and she worried the next guy who tried to pick her up wouldn’t take no for an answer. She looked expectantly at the shops across the pike, sure that at any second her beloved redhead would come bobbing around the corner, brimming with explanations and apologies.

But after ten more minutes, she’d had enough. Patty had said not to come to the convent, but if Kristen was going to be stood up, she was owed an explanation. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe Patty was sick. In that case, Kristen would take care of her. And if her conscience was bothering her again, a look at Kristen in her see-through sweater would bring her around.

Kristen got up from the bench and crossed the pike when the light changed. Bobbi, the woman who owned the second-hand jewelry store on the corner, waved to her through the window. The girls from Saint Agnes spent a lot of their after-school hours in there, trying on antique silver pins and lapis pendants. Kristen was surprised Bobbi recognized her out of uniform. She had a sudden inspiration — she and Patty would go in this very afternoon and buy matching rings. Jade, if Bobbi had them, to remind her of Patty’s eyes. She pointed down the street toward the school, as if explaining why she couldn’t come in just then, and she walked on.

Off the crowded pike, with its banks, real estate offices and shops, the road descended into a valley of gingerbread homes and wrought iron fences. The sidewalk stopped at the first cross street, and Kristen continued on the shoulder, past the old orphanage where, now, they took care of kids from the city who’d been abused or whose parents were in jail. Stone cottages built a century ago hid behind a barricade of trees that were just beginning to bud. Farther along, across the roadway, stood a white-grid block incongruously called the Cloister, where retired nuns were warehoused with other old Catholics, and where, every December, the girls from Saint Agnes, in their plaid winter uniforms and red Santa hats, would wander the antiseptic corridors, singing carols and handing out construction-paper Christmas cards drawn by kids at an elementary school. The girls were assured their visit made the old people happy.

The white box receded at the edge of Kristen’s vision, and as the road curved, Saint Agnes Academy turned slowly into view, a gray fortress on a green hill. The girls called it The Castle. It was built of smooth gray stone, with three doors in the center, each recessed in a lancet arch. A projecting gable overspread the entrance, and Saint Agnes herself, patroness of virgins, martyred at twelve, guarded her charges’ virtue from her niche below the peak. To the right, at the corner of the school, a chess-piece turret rose a full story above the surrounding roof. Everywhere the walls were studded with battlements, so in case of attack, she guessed, the girls of Saint Agnes could rain arrows on the raping Vandals below.

Kristen climbed the asphalt drive past the arches and around the tower. Behind the school was the sisters’ residence, a squat cross, made of the same gray stone as the Castle, that sat in the middle of the parking lot. The nuns walked fifty feet to work every day. She mounted the steps and rang the bell.

Stillness. Sunshine. Birds. She rang again, and after a small eternity she heard the sucking sound of an inner door. A lock clicked, then another. The oak door opened a crack, and Kristen found herself examined by the hard gray eyes of Sister Saint Augustine.

“Yes?”

“Sister Patrice asked me to meet her here.”

“Sister Patrice is indisposed,” the nun said. “Can it wait?”

“Well … we … uh…”

“Yes?”

“We were going to talk about my vocation.”

“You want to be a nun?”

“I think so.”

“Never think. Either you know or you don’t.”

“I’m only fourteen.”

“A baby,” Sister Saint Augustine said. “Very well. Come inside. I’ll see if Sister’s well enough to receive you.”

She stepped back, and the heavy door opened wide, as if on its own. Kristen went in. The nun heaved the door shut and brushed past her, leading her into a dim foyer. The walls were covered halfway up with oak, recessed in rectangular panels and topped with a protruding rail. The ceiling, too, was oak, deeply coffered and toothed at the edges. The rugs were spotless, but they looked old — thick and dull blue, with an indecipherable pattern of thorns and yellow flowers that twined around a faded brown cross. A staircase with a wood-spindle banister went up the left wall. To the right, an archway, braced with fluted oak pillars, opened onto a sitting room.

“Wait in there,” Sister said. “Sister is upstairs.”

But Auggie didn’t go upstairs. She went back behind the staircase and disappeared, limping slightly. She always limped. The sole of her right shoe was thick, to compensate for her short leg.

The sitting room was a transept of the cross, with windows on three sides. Kristen sat in a ruffled loveseat opposite the entrance. A crucifix hung on one side of the archway, and a picture of the Virgin on other. Magazines were fanned out on the coffee table in front of her, like in a doctor’s office, except these magazines were religious. The covers were smooth, as if they had never been opened.

Impatient and uncomfortable, Kristen picked one up. She flipped to an article about making the gospel relevant to the millennial generation, and she was about to discover the secret when Auggie limped into the room again, carrying a tray.

“I was making some tea,” Auggie said. “Perhaps you’d like to have some.”

She put the tray down on the table. Besides the tea service, there was a plate piled high with lumpy oatmeal cookies.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Don’t be shy, then. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Kristen bit gratefully into a cookie as Auggie poured her a cup of tea. Without asking, she added two spoonfuls of sugar. Then she poured herself a cup, unsweetened, and sat down.

“How’s the cookie?”

“Mmm,” was all Kristen could say with her mouth full.

It was chewy and dense with raisins and walnuts. Obviously homemade, and wonderful. She followed it with a sip of the tea, and, liking the sweet taste of peppermint, took a big hot swallow. It felt good going down. The sugar seemed to course through her arms. She was hungrier than she knew.

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Auggie said. “I can be nice, on occasion. I know I come off as stern, but it’s necessary if we’re going to turn out truly Christian women in today’s world. What makes you think you might like to join our order?”

“Did you tell Sister Patrice I was here?”

“I will. Answer my question.”

“I don’t know,” Kristen said. “I love God.”

“Do you love God, or do you love Sister Patrice? — Don’t be embarrassed. You wouldn’t be the first girl who thought she had a vocation because she had a crush on a nun. I’ve seen it many times. They used to have crushes on me, back in the day. Would you believe it?”

Auggie was sharper around the edges than Patty, but she wasn’t a bad looking woman. Not pretty, but handsome. Her face was square, with soft lines around a thin mouth. Her iron-black hair, in stiff bristles, was tipped with gray, but her square shoulders bracketed a bosom that was still high and pointed — the advantage of not having kids. B cups, Kristen guessed.

“Yes, Sister,” she said. “I believe it.”

“Well, you get an A for today’s class. More tea?” Sister hadn’t touched hers.

“May I please have another cookie?”

“Since you have such lovely manners, you may have as many as you like.” She stirred another spoonful of sugar into Kristen’s cup, and Kristen saw the students had been unfair. She regretted not liking this woman.

“I can see why you all love Sister Patrice,” Sister went on, laying the spoon on Kristen’s saucer with a clink. “She’s young. She’s warm-hearted. She has that charming brogue, and those extraordinary breasts. — Oh, don’t look so shocked. We’re nuns, but we’re women, and we live in close quarters. We notice each another’s bodies. Surely, you’ve admired Sister’s breasts. You can admit it. It’s no sin.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“I thought so. It’s only natural. You know, there’s a misconception about life in the convent. Everyone thinks it’s a hotbed of lesbianism. Do you think you might be a lesbian?”

“Patty asked me the same thing.”

Oh, did she say Patty?

“You mean Sister Patrice asked you.”

Oh, she had.

“Yes, Sister.”

“So you do love her,” Auggie said. “I was wondering why you would come to discuss your vocation dressed in such a revealing manner.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Kristen pinched her sweater in the center of her chest and shook it out, plucking it away from her stiff nipples. But it was too late. Auggie had noticed them. And as Patty said in class, about adultery in the heart, a thought, once thought —

“Can’ be un-thought,” Kristen said out loud.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, S’st’.” She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Uh uh.” She clamped her mouth shut, suppressing another laugh, but despite her best effort, a sputtering cackle broke through.

“It is funny, isn’t it?” Sister said.

“What?”

“Everything, darling. Life.”

Kristen glanced down. The sweater had settled back on her chest, and her nipples were poking through the weave again.

“Ni’s,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“I see my nip-ples.”

“Yes, I see them, too.”

But Kristen didn’t bother to tug at her sweater a second time. Her arms felt heavy, and she didn’t feel like moving. She was indisposed.

Funny word, “indisposed.” Take it apart. In. Dis. Po. Dis Po In. Dis In. Like all the way in.

Whoa! What was wrong with her? She shook her head. Blinked. Down on her lap, her fingers curled limply around her half-eaten cookie. A crescent moon far away, at the bottom of a wavy pool. She contemplated it for a while, until Sister took it from her and placed it back on the plate.

“You won’t need that,” she said. She licked a finger and wiped a crumb from the corner of Kristen’s mouth.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“Fum,” Kristen said.

“Did you say fine? Or funny?”

“Fum,” she repeated, as if the meaning were obvious. And she laughed again, but it didn’t sound like her laughing. It sounded like it was coming from outside.

“That’s the tea,” Sister said. “It’s making you very relaxed.”

Something crawled around down there. Under her sweater. A mouse. Oh. It was Sister’s hand. Kristen told her to stop. Or maybe she didn’t. Watching the lump move made her dizzy. She rested her head on the back of the seat. That didn’t help. The ceiling was tilting and swooping around. So she raised her heavy head. Her sweater was gone. Her titties were bright white lightbulbs. Her sweater was way over there. The lightbulbs went out. Something black was on her chest. Her titties tickled. They felt wet. Something was stretching and moving them around.

“Auggie,” she said.

Auggie was nice. She gave her tea and cookies.

The Virgin Mary was over there. Her blue gown billowed and rippled. It made her queasy to watch. She looked down again. She was all undressed. Except red socks. The mouse was in her lap. No eyes. No tail. But it had fat lips that sucked on three bony fingers.

“Cunt,” she said.

“That’s a very bad word,” a voice said.

“Su’ says cunt.”

“Does she?”

“Fuck and cunt.”

“She’s bad, isn’t she?”

“She’s bad.”

She heard more laughing. The mouse was far down there. The black thing was between her legs. A fat tongue licked the mouse’s nose. Red socks. Wet tickle. Right there. She watched herself feel herself come.

“Huh!”

“Does that feel good?”

“Huh-uh.”

The door. Light in the windows.

“No, dear, you mustn’t go out with no clothes on.”

Where did the light go? Just carpet. Blue and yellow. Brown thorns. She licked it, laughing and thinking, cunt. Wet tickle again. On her asshole this time.

“My darling,” a sad voice said.

A hand on her cheek. Soft. She was looking up. What light though yonder… ? White, around a shadow-face. And a halo of orange fire.

“I’m all done,” she said, pointlessly, and gave up the ghost.

THE END OF CHAPTER SIX