Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff /
Feature Title: THE SAINT AGNES PASSION 8 /
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 8

Suzie poured the tea down the sink, squirted soap into the pot and filled it with hot water. Wendy watched her from her runway outside the kitchen.

“The tea was a bad idea?” she asked.

“She doesn’t want to drink tea ever again.”

She put the untouched cup back into the cabinet and the untouched spoon into the drawer.

“What about the muffin?”

“I left it for her.”

Suzie came over and worked herself onto Wendy’s lap. Her healthy bare legs hung over one wheel of the chair. Wendy reached for her face, but Suzie, anticipating the move, was already ducking her head. Their lips met, their tongues flashed into one another’s mouths.

“Mmm. Can you stay?”

“Yeah. Mom said it’s OK.”

“All night?”

“We’re off till Thursday.”

She traced her tongue along the ridge of Wendy’s ear.

“Want me to eat your pussy?”

“Oh God!” Thrilling at the thought, Wendy closed her arms about Suzie’s waist and rested her head on the girl’s shoulder. “I feel so selfish.”

“She said it’s OK. She likes it that you can feel good.”

“You’re like a little missionary,” Wendy said. She wiggled Suzie’s tit through her top.

“Oh Christ!”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s fucking Sister Patrice.”

Suzie bolted from her lap. Wendy scootered behind and peered through the front-door window as the girl held the curtain open. A plump-breasted woman with short red hair, much younger than Wendy had imagined, was pacing on the sidewalk in front of the house. She glanced back at the street, then up at the roof, as though looking for something, somewhere, that could make up her mind for her.

She didn’t look like a nun. Wearing only a sweatshirt, tight jeans, and battered red tennies, she looked like what she was — a runaway. A black canvas bag, like a duffel, hung from her shoulder. She was obviously on her way somewhere.

“Call her in, love,” Wendy said.

Suzie opened the inner door.

“Sister!” she shouted through the screen, in none too welcoming a tone.

Patrice looked back, startled, but in time she gathered her courage and came up the walk. Once inside, she stood in the doorway, not daring to put down her bag. The scene before her unsettled her more than she already was: She hadn’t expected to meet a disabled woman, or encounter Miss Nguyen in just a tank top and panties. What kind of mother let her daughter’s friends run around her house practically naked? It almost made her forget the beam in her own eye.

Kristen’s mother broke the silence.

“You’re the famous Sister Patrice?”

“Not a sister anymore, Mum.”

“You look surprised to see me.”

“Yes, frankly. She never mentioned…”

“That her mother’s in a wheelchair? It seems she has a lot in her life she needs to forget.”

“Zing,” Miss Nguyen said.

“How is she?”

“You’ve got fucking balls—” Miss Nguyen said, but the mother cut her off.

“She hasn’t come out of her room in three days,” she said. “And she won’t tell me what you did to her. I can only guess.”

“I’m ready to give myself over —”

“But you wanted to tell her you’re sorry first.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“All right. I shouldn’t let you, but maybe you can get through to her. Her room is that closed door on the right. You can leave your bag here.”

Patrice walked through the living room. She knocked on the closed door. No answer. She looked back at the mother and the brown girl.

“Go on in,” the mother said. “She won’t bite.”

Miss Nguyen looked at her with implacable rage.

Kristen lay facing the far wall in a fetal position, swaddled in a long white gown. All that was visible of the girl herself was her tousled hair and the dots of her toes. The medallions of an English muffin, spread evenly with apricot jam, occupied a plate on the nightstand. A single bite had been taken out of one of them.

“Kristen?”

The shrouded body stiffened, a movement almost imperceptible but as sharp as a slap in the face. Patrice stepped inside and closed the door.

“Darling?”

This time there was no movement. Patrice sat on the empty side of the bed. She laid a hand on Kristen’s shoulder, expecting an explosion, but nothing happened. It was like touching a corpse.

“I came to tell you I’m leaving. The school, the convent, everything. I’m going away, I don’t know where. I just came to tell you I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you, and it was … it was only my fear and my sorry guilt that brought you into that … that perversion.”

She heard a whine. Kristen was trying to say something, but the catch in her throat blocked it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“We could have been happy.”

“No. I don’t think so. Not really. But I will never deny you again. I love you, and I will admit that to everyone, no matter what happens.”

What did happen, Patrice would remember always as a gift of grace. There was a white flash, a flutter of linen, and Kristen’s face was in her lap.

“Forgive me, please—” Patrice said.

“Always, always, always.”

Kristen kissed her thighs, her crotch. Dark damp splotches grew in the denim. The force of the emotion was irresistible, and so was Kristen’s grip as she hauled Patrice onto her back, pinning her down and dripping tears as she kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her lips.

Her hand went up beneath the sweatshirt.

“No, baby, your mother—”

“Fuck her.”

Their tongues, meshing, cut off conversation for the moment — the fullest and yet most delicate feeling, wet bundles of nerve ends brushing one another, vulnerable but eager, igniting a flame within that melted Patrice’s pussy and turned her nipples to steel. She had feared she would burn ever since she was a little girl, but now that it was happening, she welcomed it.

She tugged at the gown, but the hem snagged on Kristen’s heels. Kristen sat up, straddling Patrice’s thighs, and Patrice saw it was a beautiful garment, a Russian peasant’s blouse with puffed sleeves and embroidered vines at the wrists and the thin V below the neck. But it was in the way. Kristen, fixing Patrice’s gaze with a smirk, crossed her arms and gripped her shoulders. Then she uncrossed her arms, and the shroud floated away. Her young body took the full light of the afternoon.

Patrice reached for her little tits, but Kristen backed off, teasing her.

“You first,” she said.

Patrice took off her sweatshirt in an earthly parody of Kristen’s own divine, crisscross motion. Kristen dug her hands under her and undid her bra.

“You should never cover these,” she said when the cups came off. “You have to go topless all the time.”

“I hear and obey.”

Kristen gently jiggled Patty’s tits, but she grimaced at the purple spots around her nipples, the dark reminders of the clamps. Softly, she kissed each bruise.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “You can’t hurt yourself ever again.”

“May I keep my butt plug?”

“Oh, all right.”

And they fell together laughing. Kristen’s loving mouth moved down Patty’s sides, and over her stomach, and when she reached the tight border of her jeans, she opened the snap and zipper and yanked hard. Jeans and panties came down together, and the heavy smell of pussy leapt into the air.

The sneakers presented a final obstacle, but soon, through Kristen’s persistence, they were naked together at last, pressing mouth to mouth, flesh to flesh. Their hands flowed over smooth hollows, backs and buttocks, kneaded the springy dough of young breasts. Each slipped a leg through the other’s crotch, and their hungry cunts began a slow dance on one another’s thighs.

“Uh,” Kristen said.

“Oh,” Patty answered.

At this moment, she would have testified that their flesh dissolved and they passed into one another, like ghosts. But a ghost doesn’t have a drooling pussy, as Kristen did, or a solid leg you can hump.

“Quietly,” Patty whispered. “Quietly. We don’t want them to hear…”

And it was quiet. They came silently, but for the first time, together.

Patrice would have died happily at that moment, the sacrament of reconciliation completed, but Kristen wasn’t finished. She kissed Patrice’s neck and shoulders, and sucked hard on one breast — which Patrice now realized were sore from the abuse it had taken.

“Uh uh,” she said, and reflexively she pushed at Kristen’s head.

“Sorry,” Kristen whispered. She worked down, kissing Patrice’s belly, filling her navel with her tongue. Patrice touched her head again, steering her toward her tangled red garden, but Kristen skipped over it. Instead, she licked upward, along Patrice’s thigh, and when she reached the top, she skipped again and licked down the other side.

“You teasing devil!”

“Poor thing,” Kristen said. But she could never be mean, not really. In her mercy, she pushed her face full on into Patrice’s cunt. That blessed tongue flooded the gates of her hole and cooled the hot coal of her clit.

Her face tingled with pleasure. She raised a hand to her open mouth.

“Sweet.”

“Muh?” Kristen asked, her mouth full of pussy.

“Yes! Fuck!”

“Shh. Mom will hear you.”

“Fuck her.”

“I know how to shut you up.”

And she swung around. Her pussy hung in Patrice’s sight like a pink host. This is my body. Take and eat. She accepted it gratefully on her tongue.

And they lay in a frenzied 69 that canceled all thought. Their fingers dug into one another’s asses, their mouths worked with growing urgency, and they were no longer of this world. The earth and all its foulness were gone, and there was only light and love and the fullness of pleasure.

And they came again, this time with power.

●●●

There was a soft knock at the door, and Miss Nguyen, who had no sense of boundaries, poked her head in without waiting to be told to piss off.

“What’s going on in here, you two?”

What was going on, at that moment, was that Patrice had her tongue up Kristen’s asshole. But she moved fast in her sudden fright. Her knees banged the floor, and she curled up tight as a wood louse, childishly covering her eyes, as if no one could see her as long as she couldn’t see anyone else.

“I think they’ve made up,” she heard Miss Nguyen say.

“Oh, my word,” came the mother’s voice.

“God!” Kristen said. “Is there anybody else out there? You want to take pictures?”

“Where’s your friend?” the mother said.

“She’s hiding behind the bed,” Miss Nguyen said.

“Stand up back there. Let’s see you.”

Kristen tapped her on the back of the head.

“Don’t be shy,” she said.

Patrice got to her feet. She stood for inspection — arms at her sides, shoulders back, boobs out. Might as well lead with your best feature. The mother was sitting just outside the door. She looked Patrice over.

“Very nice,” she said finally. Patrice couldn’t tell if she was genuinely admiring her or damning her with sarcasm.

“Don’t be afraid,” the mother said. “I don’t have any authority anymore where my daughter’s sex life is concerned.”

She placed a hand on Miss Nguyen’s hip. How boundless were that girl’s sexual appetites?

Before the intrusion, Kristen had been buns up, facedown at the foot of the bed, but now she was sitting on her heels, her hands on her knees. She bounced playfully as she asked, “Can we keep her, Mom?”

“Sweetie, she’s not a pet.”

“Yes, she is. She’s my pet. And she doesn’t have anyplace to go.”

“Is that true?” Wendy asked.

“I’ll find someplace, Mum.”

“Nonsense. You’ll stay with us. At least until you can figure something out.”

“She can take care of you.”

“I do fine, Sweetie.”

“I will, though,” Patrice said. “I’ll work for nothing.”

“But with benefits,” Miss Nguyen put in.

The mother swatted her behind.

“Behave!” she said. Then, to her naked daughter: “We’ll talk about it.” She took Miss Nguyen’s hand. “Come on, dear, let’s go to my room.”

And door closed. Peacefully.

“That’s it?” Patrice asked.

“Looks like.”

“I can stay?”

“If you want.”

“With you? In your mother’s house?”

“You gonna ask questions, or you gonna kiss my butt some more?”

Kristen went down on her forearms again, offering up her bottom. Her asshole beckoned like a reverse star — a point of dark light in a white sky. Patrice resumed her station on the bed, subordinate yet undeniably privileged, and dipped her tongue in the cool recess.

She could never have imagined this place, though, really, she had dreamed of it her whole life. It was the very reason she had taken the veil. In hours of despair, she had doubted its existence, but she saw now, making love to Kristen’s ass, that her doubts had been foolish, because after all her suffering, she had made it. She was here.

In Heaven.

THE END OF CHAPTER EIGHT