Feature Writer: Yankee Dan 

Feature Title: THE ABBEY OF DISILLUSION 1

Published: 19.01.2023

Story Codes: Erotic Horror

Synopsis: A young postulant struggles with her lust

Author’s Note: Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always good be it positive or negative I appreciate it greatly. If folks don’t like tentacle sex this is your chance to talk me out of part 2 being a tentacle rape fest. Lesbian BDSM will be the central focus though I’m open to suggestions of other kinks. I envision this as the beginning of what will be my longest story series.

The Abbey Of Disillusion 1

“Let not the newly arrived candidate be admitted too easily, but let care be taken, as the Apostle St. John advises, to try the spirits if they be of God.” — St. Benedict

May 3, 1933

I struggled to sleep again last night. Rain was trickling down the window of my room, which looks out over the abbey’s courtyard. As each drop made its way across the moon it distorted the beams of light slightly, forming a soft carnival of sorrowful light dancing on my naked breast. If a sister were to dare the damp evening she could have looked up to my window and seen my nipples, erect from the cold, as they pressed against the glass. Somewhere beyond the dale the miskatonic flows outward and past Arkham, but in the darkness it could not be seen.

Sleep has come in troubled spurts following each sunset since my passing time in Arkham’s briefly lived Hooverville. I trembled as my thoughts returned to the pain of those days and I craned my neck to look for the river. I imagined that if I could bathe in its waters I’d be cleansed of the sinful yearnings growing in my bosom this last fortnight, as some delusion festers within me that those indignities were desirable. I painted a scene from Matthew in my mind, with myself at the Jordan river being baptized by John. The water is cold, but its sting snaps me out of this fugue… I emerge renewed.

Something moved out of the corner of my eye and I turned, a gasp catching in my throat — my door was open.

“Sister Margaret?” I whispered, almost afraid to break the quiet and interrupt the soft patter of rain as if it was a performance put on by the most serious actors of the stage.

No response came.

I approached the door slowly, perhaps I had left it unlatched. I peeked out and surveyed the hallway. At the western end of the hall, my right, stands a door which had been shut and locked with the most archaic mechanism I have ever encountered.

The abbess, Mother Superior Prinn, explained to me upon my arrival that the door leads to a stairwell which is in a horrid state, and dangerous. As such the old door is kept locked and off limits, but now it stood open.

There seemed to be a faint light, flickering as if by fire, emanating from the doorway, which I could see into enough to confirm that indeed it contained a stairwell descending to unknown places. I realized at this moment that there was no corresponding door on the first and second floor as one would expect, and a twinge of curiosity stirred in me … but I turned back into my room.

May 4, 1933

I was summoned by the abbess in the morning, and as I sat outside her office I came to the conclusion that I would be reprimanded for my manner of dress, or some other violation of the culture which I am still learning.

My postulancy, being in it’s infancy, feels precarious, and the looks I have been noticing from the sisters tells me that rumor of my manner of life prior to arriving at the convent is spreading among the inhabitants. I thought back to the day before when the warm spring sun caused me to absentmindedly strip to my underclothes while working on the garden.

Upon arrival to the convent I informed the abbess of my agricultural upbringing, and she showed me their modest garden. I promised her I could expand it and began new plots, for the convent had no shortage of land, but lacked the skills to wrestle some from the forest and into producing fields.

As I worked the previous day I had found myself drenched in sweat, and bit by bit discarded the garments the sisters provided me. Near the end of the day, I had noticed Sister Margaret watching me closely as I bent over in the mud, yanking a stubborn root from the ground, my sweat drenched undergarments clinging to my breast and bottom. Margaret seemed to watch me for a long time, returning my nervous smile with a nod and a predator’s stare.

“First I want to thank you for all the work you’ve been doing in the gardens, Caroline,” the abbess said when I had seated myself in front of her, “Sister West has told me you planted potatoes out near the orchids in the dale.”

“Yes,” I replied, “They’ll be needing little tending and that plot is further afield.”

Mother Superior is an older woman, but surprisingly young to be in charge of this abbey. I guess her age to be maybe forty years. She is dark of hair with brown eyes, and her face reminds me of the girls in the flicks I saw as young girl years ago. Although her habit somewhat disguises the shape of her body, I can tell her bosom is much larger than mine.

“And you planted cranberries north of the western road.”

“They take a few years to produce,” I informed her.

“If you’re to be running all over the forest planting crops I would ask that you consult with Sister Bowen first … where did you get the cranberry seed by the way?”

I grew even more nervous. “I scampered by the Whateley place and Noah was kind enough to provide. He and my father were on good terms.”

The abbess narrowed her eyes at me.

“Did you … pay Mr. Whateley in some way?”

I thought about the feeling of Noah’s cock-head on my lips, the strong salty flavor of his sweat, built up over hours of work on the fields, and the feeling of his rough hands pushing my head down on the shaft, which seemed so much longer than it looked as it wedged, inch by inch, into my throat.

“No.” I lied. I imagined her scolding me, “You filthy fricatrice! Been giving out French jobs?” In my head she was looking down on me, a fricatrice, a call girl, a prostitute … a whore. Instead, she changed the subject.

“Margaret could use some help,” she said, “She’s been struggling with some things that you may be more familiar with than the other Sisters,” she paused for a moment, inviting me to ask what things, but I was silent, “I’ll advise her to see you after dinner.”

I nodded.

As I stood, feeling tense as a frightened hare, the abbess stood with me. She placed her hand on my shoulder before I left the office.

“My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, neither be weary of his correction. For whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father the son in whom he delighteth,” she recited, adding, “You’ll be alright.”

I nodded, taking her intention as comfort.

It was a difficult yet fulfilling day in the gardens, which I viewed as and would soon convert into fields, although after my conversation with the abbess I understood not to turn the grounds into a farm there was plenty of space to grow out of sight from the convent.

I encountered one curiosity under the secretive earth on the southern property line: the ground was only a foot of topsoil beneath which was man-made stone. I concluded that it must be the foundation of some old structure come to ruin years prior, but I could not find the edges of its northern side. It extended in each place I checked towards the convent, and after an hour of effort I decided daylight was wasting.

Sister Margaret awaited me in the dining hall and we ate together, though she broached no serious matters. She told me how she applied to the convent at only sixteen, it being her calling from a young age. Five years had seen her grow into a respected member of the convent and of Arkham society as well where she had just begun working when the crash of 1929 hit. A postulant at the time, she worked tirelessly to help the many destitute families that came from and to Arkham in those first chaotic years.

I was only a bit surprised when she asked to come by my room, whatever was eating at here most be something she didn’t want paraded in front of the other sisters.

My room was modest, although comfortable, and the only real mark I had made upon it was the contents of one bookshelf. Sister Margaret knelt in front of it, inspecting the works. Her fingers traced the bindings of the books, some quite worn with age, but each protected fiercely from damage by all threats save the ravages of time that no woman could turn aside. The room was dimly lit by a small lantern, the sun’s last rays receding over the horizon.

“Mother Superior doesn’t like this book.”

She informed me, her hands stopping on my copy of Paradise Lost.

“She told me so already,” I replied, “Said folks get thinking that Milton is another book of the Bible, but I know that well and she didn’t fuss at me none over it.”

Margaret reached up and pulled off her veil, letting her hair spill out as it fell to the ground. I took a deep breath as I saw how bright and long her hair was when free of its constraints. It fell down her back as she undid her bun, previously concealed. Next she removed her neckerchief and habit. Beneath the mass of her gown were simple white underclothes, rather tight against her body. Her bosom looked ready to burst from the cloth, the mass of her garments no longer concealing her voluptuous form.

“It gets stifling at times,” she said, extending her left hand to me, “Come, sit with me.”

I took her hand and took my place next to her. Margaret reached over and undid my headdress. I passively allowed her to remove some of my own garments, although the simple dress I wore was not as formal and complicated as her habit, me being only a postulant.

She took my hands in hers when she was done and rubbed them.

“You have such strong hands, Caroline,” she marveled, “The land toughens you.”

I explained. Years of farming had given me strong hands, among other things, though I am somewhat small of frame.

Margaret’s hands started to wander a bit, and I wondered at the familiarity. I had grown up with only brothers, was this appropriate? I silently questioned. She rubbed my thighs.

“You must be sore from working all day,” she said.

“I’m used to it,” I told her.

“Why don’t you lay on the bed?” she asked me.

I complied, as I so often did with such request, and she began to message my body.

“Uhhh …” I squeaked out as her hands worked at my shoulders.

“Have you ever had a massage?” she asked me.

I shook my head. No, the only people who’d touched me of late had their own, quick gratification in mind.

“Relax,” she told me, her hands roaming down my body.

“Ahhh, it hurts …” I muttered.

“Is it a good hurt?” she asked me.

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but as she worked her thumbs against my thighs my legs wanted to curl up and I moaned.

“You like it?” she asked me.

I nodded, huffing.

I wasn’t sure how massages worked, but what she was doing was arousing me. I began to worry, would she notice? What would she think? Was it my whorish, sinful nature that was causing my loins to stir in response to her fingers? You’re a freak. I thought to myself. A nasty, filthy whore.

“Uhhhmmmm gaww … Sister …” I moaned into the pillow as she turned me onto my stomach, her hands kneading my muscles through the soft valley of flesh where my thighs met my bottom.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, pressing her tight body up against my back, “Others could hear.”

So this isn’t right. I thought. Indeed, Sister Margaret was not behaving normally, it wasn’t just me. We were engaging in lustful, scandalous behavior. I wondered if I’d tempted poor Margaret with my sin. She must have known what I was and thought on it as she looked at me. I imagined her fascination at a whore coming to their Abbey, and how she must have envisioned committing all manner of sin. Seeing me in the garden that day ignited some sick lust inside her!

“Sister Margaret!” I entreated quietly but urgently, “You must stop!”

I begged her to stop, but meanwhile I was pushing my ass back against her. Her hands lost all pretense and she cupped my sex through my clothes, squeezing. I felt her nipples on my back as she cast aside her top, then pulled off mine. Her soft, heavy globes rubbed over my skin, eliciting goosebumps along my legs. When I felt her tug at my drawers I knew things were almost too far to stop.

“Margaret enough!”

Her hands paused on my body. I glanced back and saw her face, perspiration forming on her brow and a look of some confusion crossing her face. She looked genuinely frozen, so I turned myself over under her and wrapped my arms around her, and unconsciously, my legs.

“It’s okay,” I told her, stroking her hair. Such habits, ingrained in me so quickly, “We just got a little carried away. The abbess said you needed my help … what did you need?”

She looked flustered, her breathing heavy.

“I’ve struggled for a long time with … thoughts about the other sisters … the abbess said you’d be able to help me.”

Her hands started moving again, slowly.

I thought about this for a moment. Just what had the abbess intended? A frank conversation? Surely not … this encounter. Something else occurred to me.

“Margaret do you … touch yourself?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Constantly … the abbess caught me a few weeks ago, and since then she’s been trying to correct me …”

This caught me off guard. The last thing I expected was Sister Margaret to tell me she was frigging herself each evening.

“Do you want to see?” she asked, climbing up my body.

I was shocked to see she had removed her drawers while I was facing the pillow, her sex was exposed to me, and it glistened with drops of moisture in the dim light of my lantern. I opened my mouth to protest but just gaped dumbstruck by the perverse act I was now witness to. I had never had a woman debase herself in my presence, or even ask it of me.

Margaret’s left hand gripped my breast firmly, pinching the nipple between her thumb and index fingers while her right slipped between her legs, the fingers parting her lower lips and beginning to rub up and down, becoming covered with her juices.

“Caroline … uhhh, watch me … I’m so wet.”

Her scent washed over me, warm and rich like an ocean wave in August, each one lapping further and further up my body, until I felt it’s salty tinge on my face, wetting my cheeks.

I shook my head, no! Her thighs were settling around my face.

“Yes …” She whispered.

I opened my mouth to yell and she lowered herself on me. I tasted another woman for the first time.

“Lick it … lick me,” Margaret insisted.

Her pussy lips covered my nose and mouth, I couldn’t breathe!

I tried to shake my head no, the stifled motion of which elicited a moan from Margaret. I tried to speak, and the motion of my lips drew a sharp inhalation from my tormentor. I reached up and grabbed her thighs, so full and soft, and tried pushing her off, but I couldn’t get any leverage, and we began to wiggle on the bed.

I shifted and thrashed under her as she ground her pussy on my face. Occasionally I caught a quick breath, but she then guided my mouth back to her cunt, taking my head in both hands and smiling down at me as her panting grew more intense. I was becoming increasingly desperate for air, but also for something else. I pictured myself pinned down on Hangman’s Hill the previous fall, a large man taking me, and how he had placed his hands around my neck for a moment before apologizing … and how I’d asked him to do it again.

Her right hand reached back and slid under my clothes. Finding my damp womanhood, her fingers began to dance across my sex, teasing and circling. She laughed at my shame as we both realized how aroused I’d become.

“What a nasty little deviant …” she muttered.

My lungs were now burning for lack of air, but bizarrely it heightened my arousal. In moments my hips were rising, and Margaret’s fingers were pushing into me. I came, so quickly, quicker than I ever had, and sucked her clit into my mouth, practically biting down on it. Margaret shuddered over me.

“Oh, oh, oh, you whore that’s right suck my virgin cunt!”

Abandoning all reason, I ran my tongue up and down through the folds of her sex. I felt myself drowning in a sea of flesh and womanly secretions. It felt as though a hose was pouring steaming water on my face, and I foolishly believed I could stop the flow with my tongue. My head spun from lack of oxygen, and my eyes rolled back in my head as I passed out, feeling Margaret cumming on my face again and again.

When I awoke she was gone, having left the door cracked. Perhaps it was her shame and regret that led her to leave me so carelessly exposed but regardless I was horrified at who might see me. I moved quietly to the door but before closing it I peaked out. Everything was silent, but the door at the end of the hall again stood open. I wondered who kept using it at night, for it was always locked during the day.

I heard a murmur seem to come from the stairs, and curiosity got the better of me. Quickly dawning a nightgown I crept towards the door, past Sister West’s room which lay between mine and the end of the hall, until I came to the stairwell’s threshold. There was a voice coming up, as from deep below. I strained to hear, stepping onto cold stone of which the stairwell was constructed.

“I don’t know what you think you were doing, or why you think you wouldn’t be caught!” A woman’s voice, the abbess? Another voice spoke, and it was low … I couldn’t make out the words, but it was a man’s voice.

I thought there were no men in the abbey.

May 6, 1933

It was not I who ignited the foul desires burning in Sister Margaret. She confided in me the day after our dalliance that she found a small comic concealed in the clothes of a man at Arkham’s poorhouse. It was titled, Go Down Sister and the cover portrayed one woman kneeling between another’s legs. I recognized her description as what men called, “Tijuana Bibles,” and she told me she had been trading for them from the vagrants who commonly pass through Arkham. She has amassed quite a collection but most featured men mounting women … it is the first one she encountered that she most covets. She hides her collection in a small chest under her bed.

“This is awfully dangerous,” I had warned her.

What the abbess will do if she finds out I have no clue. Sister Margaret swears that she was not confronted by the abbess that night. Nor am I interested in learning what the abbess would think of the fornication we committed on my bed. It is known only to us and the peeping moon, whose confidence I am sure will keep.

We have become like co-conspirators, and I tell the abbess that I am supporting Margaret in her spiritual troubles. In truth Margaret is a source of great spiritual torment for my person. I must launder the sheets tonight for these past nights I have formed the abhorrent habit of sniffing my pillow where Margaret’s juices flowed onto it, and I can’t stop imagining her wet sex, shamefully pressed over my nose, drowning me in her cum.

May 8, 1933

This evening I made the mistake of asking Margaret how Mother Superior Prinn has been trying to stop her private shame, which prompted her to begin explaining in the most awful detail. We were sitting in my room, the last light of day fading in the window.

“She has been reading from psychologist,” Margaret said.

She explained that the abbess is fond of the work of Edward Lee Thorndike, who is a leader in the field of behaviorism, studying the how and why that men and beast do as we do. From him she learned a great deal about, “Reinforcement.”

“As God punishes man to teach him, we can also punish ourselves, and thereby avoid the need to bring the almighty into the matter,” Margaret leaned against me, speaking softly.

She shuddered and I instinctively wrapped an arm around her for comfort.

The month before I arrived at the abbey Prinn brought Margaret to her chambers. Margaret was nervous of course, fearful of what penance the abbess had in mind. The Mother Superior had tied Margaret down to her bed, removing her clothes. Prinn had rubbed Margaret’s body from head to toe, smearing a pleasant-smelling oil all over her, anointing her.

The abbess then undressed down to her underwear, which Margaret noticed were a pair of lace panties, and leaned over Margaret, resting her bare breast on Margaret’s face.

“Do you like these?” she asked.

Margaret shook her head, no.

“No, no, no child. No need for lies. We must be honest. This isn’t about mouthing platitudes, it’s about what’s truly inside you,” Mother Superior chided, “Here … open your mouth … that’s right … suck on it go ahead … ummm … do you like that?”

Margaret nodded, her lips locked on the hardening nipple in her mouth. There was a loud smack and Margaret dropped the tit from her lips, crying out. Her pussy tingled following the blow.

“Open up little bird,” the abbess said.

She placing her breast back up against Margaret’s mouth.

She let her tongue it for a few moments before smack again sounded in the room followed by Margaret’s cries.

“Well, do you still like it?” Mother Superior inquired.

Sister Margaret hesitated, catching her breath before … nodding.

Mother Superior made a face of annoyance.

“You filthy pervert!”

She reached out and cruelly twisted Margaret’s teat before climbing atop her. She pointed to her crotch.

“And what about this? Do you yearn to touch what’s under this cloth?” Margaret stammered, “Yes Mother Superior, I do and I’m sorry!”

The abbess turned around, presenting her ass to Margaret.

“Kiss it,” she commanded.

Margaret did, and felt the abbess’ palm slam down on her wet sex. She did it again, and then again, before attaching her mouth to the plump flesh and sucking as hard as she could. The blows fell faster and faster against her thrashing body.

I sat in stunned silence after hearing this. The abbess had clearly gone too far, but then … I’m no expert in psychology. As I sat, pondering this, I felt Margaret’s hand creeping up my thigh.

“I smell you,” she whispered in my ear.

I could smell myself I realized, my pussy was dripping under my drawers.

“Maybe you need to see the abbess,” she suggested as she stood, her habit falling from her shoulders.

I shook my head.

“No we should pray,” I told her, “We should pray to be strong!”

“You’re right,” she relented, kneeling by the bed.

I sat beside her and we prayed fervently, but after a few moments Margaret stood up, her drawers remained on the floor. As she turned toward me I looked up at her.

“Margaret …” I whispered, seeing an evil glint in her eye.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said.

“Margaret?” I asked, as she stepped forward.

“Just let me …”

Margaret moved her wet snatch over my face. She said I didn’t need to do anything, and wasn’t as rough as before, gliding her soft clam over my lips, but I opened up for her, sucking and nibbling on her lips. I reached down and started rubbing myself as Margaret forced me to the floor.

“Eat me you whore,” she berated me, “God you’re not just a lewd harlot but a filthy lesbian … frigging yourself just because I rub my cunt on your face.”

Shame was burning in my chest in equal parts to the fire in my loins as I thrashed beneath her. Her vulgar language, coming from the mouth of a proper woman of the cloth, who during the daylight hours seemed so composed, aroused me in a manner which I had previously never experienced. The fact of her own lesbianism did not seem to alleviate my degradation.

“Worthless … muff-diving … fricatrice …”

She was pinching her own nipples so hard her knuckles turned white as she came on my face for the second time, cementing this as not simply a freak accident, but something that we both knew would be happening again and again, as I took my place somehow a pussy licking toy for this lust crazed sister of the abbey, learning her most intimate parts inch my inch and craving the taste of her nectar flooding my mouth.

When she finished cumming she made no rush to dismount me. I nursed her snatch softly for several more minutes while she came down from her orgasm. Sister Margaret dressed silently and left me there, laying on the floor with my sins.

May 11, 1933

On Tuesday after my last entry the spark of perversity within me seemed quieted. I didn’t discuss it with Sister Margaret, although she spent some time in the evening with me during and after dinner. The next day was the same, except I felt a twinge anticipation when dinner was ending, secretly hoping Margaret might stop by my room to exercise her demons … but no luck. Today I felt frustrated and considered inviting her back to my room where I imagined myself kneeling at her feet, begging her to use me.

I never got the chance. After dinner she slipped away … like a hungry dog I followed. Her path took her to the third floor, and then my wing. As I rounded the corner I almost bumped into Sister West.

We made small talk, she asked about my work around the grounds. It had slowed down some, as I was now engaged in also delving into the earth’s secrets regarding the suspicious stonework I was finding to be spread throughout the area. I could have asked her about this of course, but I felt as though my conversations with the other nuns were now desperate facades, each an act in a play wholly concerned with concealing the monstrous appetites burgeoning in the epicenter of my being, and I did not extend them beyond what was required.

After she retired to her room I took stock of the hall. My room was empty, and I listened at Sister West’s door for a long while, hearing nothing to indicate Margaret was there. The only place she could have gone in this wing was the suspicious door at the end of the hall. I approached in silently, almost tip toeing in my nervousness.

As I approached the door I could see that, yes, it was locked. I examined the strange handle, which almost looked like a valve, although it was quite ornate. Symbols entirely foreign to myself are carved all over it and behind the circular knob is an eight pointed star made of bronze. I touched one of the points and to my shock the point seemed to illuminate.

I stepped back from the door and glanced about, all was quiet but I was afraid to continue courting disaster by being found messing with an off-limits area so I retreated to my room, resolving that I would investigate the mystery of the door after the Sisters would be asleep.

Once the sun set, I crept out, wearing my night gown as I decided I would feign sleep walking if discovered. The hallway had never seemed so long as when I had to take those slow steps past Sister West’s room in the full knowledge that I was about to attempt circumventing the lock on the forbidden stairwell door. I knelt in the darkness, the only illumination that of the moonlight coming from a window on the northern end of the hallway.

My fingers began to trace the points of the star, and I found that each one lit upon my touching it. That light would sometimes die, leaving like a jealous lover if I touched another point. At length I realized that some combination of order existed and there were a finite number of possibilities, so I began to try them, randomly at first, and then with increasing certainty. As rapidly as Margaret had played her fingers over my flower I assaulted the star until at last all points were lit. Pausing a moment to see that it was still only I in the hallway I twisted the knob … and it opened!

I fumbled my way down the staircase, closing the door behind me so that none might come upon it in its unguarded state. The light was dim, yet there was some faint illumination radiating from below, and I felt as if I descended into the shaft of a volcano.

There was no door where the second floor should have been, nor the first. When I encountered the archway, an open exit from this pit, I pressed against the wall, peering in like a spider watching for its victims. The floor sloped downward, and I was certain I beheld an underground passage.

At this moment I heard steps from above and looking up I saw a growing light descending towards me. Panic gripped me as I considered my options, did I descend further, or take shelter in this shaft? The thought of surrendering to discovery did not even enter my calculus.

Deciding quickly I moved with what haste stealth would allow into the tunnel, my mind registering the contents of the tunnel as I did. To my left and right were, bafflingly yet unmistakably, cells. The first with an occupant was marked by a glowing touch, the source of some light in this gloomy complex.

Inside the cell was a man, chained to a bed. We locked eyes as I ran past, his look of bewilderment no doubt matched my own but I didn’t stop, putting as much distance between myself and my ignorant pursuer as I could. To my right I saw a great shape move in the shadows of a cell, as if it contained a large animal that I could not make out in the darkness. With a few more strides I saw an open cell, and threw myself into it, crawling under the decrepit bed contained within.

I waited silently there, willing my breathing to slow. The light outside grew brighter, whatever lantern was brought into this abyss cast a pale white light, an electric imitation of the moon. I was sure I would be found when the light stopped, and a voice was uttered to the captive.

“How does the night find you, Mr. Dumonte?”

It was the Mother Superior! There was a loud thump as something hit the ground.

“As well as one could expect abbess,” a man’s voice, surely the captive.

My heart caught in my throat; would he give me away? I heard metal grating on stone.

“I brought you a special treat tonight, John.”

There was a slush of water.

“Stand up now, remove those garments.”

I was dreadful curious about what was going on, but I lay still, fingers crossed. I heard them moving about, and a soft splashing and drip of water.

The man, Dumonte, spoke.

“How long do you plan to keep me in this hovel?”

“Hovel? Our precious home? I think a guest should be more grateful … lift your arms.”

“Surely there’s an arrangement we can come to? The Silver Fist has many resources,” Dumonte said.

“Hmmm,” The abbess mused, “But the services you’re already providing me are so rewarding … ummm are you getting hard for me, John?”

There was silence for a moment, and I heard the man grunt, followed by a SLAP and the soft laughter of Mother Superior.

“There, so much better,” the abbess said, “And see what else I have here? Noooo, not yet … this is for doing a good job, you’ll get it after … lean back …”

I then heard soft, wet pops and sucking sounds, mingled with the abbess moaning.

Sensing my chance to escape I started crawling along the ground. Carefully I moved to their side of the hallway and advanced. I heard a creaking start to rhythmically sound through the tunnel just before I peeked from the floor, risking exposing my head to see if I might cross in front of the cell unnoticed.

I saw the abbess, naked and mounting Mr. Dumonte. She faced away from me, so I pushed myself up onto my feet very slowly, watching them the whole time. The light of the electric lantern she’d brought into the cell showed me clearly the adulteress act playing out in the cell. I saw the man’s shaft buried in her womanhood as she rode him, hands on his chest.

Then Dumonte locked eyes with me. I froze in terror as the corners of his lips crept up ever so slightly … but he said nothing. Then he reached up and grabbed the Mother Superior’s hair, pulling it back. She yelled in pain, but then laughed.

The man mouthed the word, “Go.”

“Ummmm hurt me, yes John bite me …. Harder … uggghhh fuck me you brute, get on top … that’s right now pound me … don’t stop …”

As I turned to leave I felt something move past me, spinning I saw the cell that I had suspected contained an animal, now illuminated by the additional light. The door stood open, the cell empty. With no time to ponder this I retreated to the steps, pausing when I reached them.

A pair of eyes glinted at me from the downward path. I gulped, which must have been loud, but the occupants of the cell likely did not hear over the wet smacking that told me Dumonte was violently slamming his cock into Mother Superior. We regarded each other silently for a moment, me and the unknown creature, before it backed away, descending into the pitch-black abyss.

I returned to my room without further incident, where I could not sleep. I was disturbed by what I had witnessed, and by the fact that as I left the stairwell, I realized it also went upward, this despite the fact that I am on the uppermost floor of the abbey.

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE