Feature Writer: All These Road Works

Feature Title: THE CONVENT OF LESBA 7

Published: Found by Nadabits on NewTumbl

Synopsis: A story of Arth-Keros

The Convent of Lesba 7

In the opinion of the monks of the convent, Kyra and Felicia had become good little sluts. With the aid of the Worm, they had become fixated on sexually performing for male approval, and the idea that other women were merely props and sextoys for those performances was firmly lodged in their brains. The girls certainly retained some inherent sexual lesbian desire, and a memory of genuine affection for each other – but those thoughts were tempered with an almost overwhelming desire to rape each other to make men aroused. It was a desire that would persist, the monks believed, even after the Worm left their systems.

And so the girls proceeded to the next stage of their training: religious education.

This happened in a genuine classroom, with seats and desks. The girls were seated naked, in rows, in chairs designed to forcibly spread their legs, and a robed monk instructed them from the front of the room with the aid of a chalkboard.

Their first lesson was an exercise in fundamentals – an instruction in how the girls should go about learning – and it was taught by Father Yolande, a tall man with a dark saturnine beard and a predilection for torturing girls’ breasts.

“Allow your minds to be blank,” he instructed them in his deep, almost hypnotic voice. “You are aware of everything, and yet you are not aware. You are listening with your subconscious mind, while your conscious mind is far away, and not listening. Your subconscious mind is awake, and listening, and hearing everything, while your conscious mind remains relaxed and peaceful.”

Felicia, who had been living for weeks now in a haze of lust, abuse, and interrupted sleep, felt a fog descending on her mind. She felt like she was dreaming – and yet Father Yolande’s words echoed in her mind, each one heavy, with the weight of steel, lodging itself permanently in her mind. She felt no ability to dispute the things he said. They were truth, and each one bent and changed her around it.

Her cunt was wet, and that was the whole of her existence – a wet, slutty cunt, and an empty head for Father Yolande to fill.

“In the beginning was the Seed,” intoned Yolande. “And from the Seed came forth the Natures – ancient beings of power and potency. And together, the Natures spun the world of Arth-Keros out of the fabric of raw reality.”

Felicia knew this story. Every child of Gormotha knew this story.

“But when the world of Arth-Keros was spun,” said Yolande, “parts of it were spun twisted. And when the Natures looked to the source of this imperfection, they found that there were perversions among their number – nine Impure Natures. And everything those nine Impure Natures had spun was forever corrupted with their impurity.”

Felicia moaned. She wondered if she was allowed to rub her cunt as she listened. But her hands felt distant – far from her body, no longer under her own control.

“And so the Natures came together, and they locked their Impure siblings away at the heart of Arth-Keros, in a magical cage known as the Labyrinth. And with them, they trapped all the twisted creations of the Impure. And around the Labyrinth, they grew a great Forest, warded with dark magics, so that none of the pure creatures would trespass upon the prison of the Impure.”

Felicia felt like she, herself, was trapped in that dark cage. She felt helpless, unable to do anything but listen and moan.

“Of all the Impure creatures that were imprisoned in the Labyrinth, by far the most devious were the two called Man and Woman,” recited Yolande. “And they schemed to escape from the Labyrinth, and hold dominion over the pure world of Arth-Keros. Now, Man, being possessed of great intelligence, talents, and fortitude, managed to escape entirely of his own initiative. He solved the Labyrinth, and survived the Forest, and today he rules over all the creatures of the world. He is Impure, yes – but beholden to none, and demonstrated as the rightful master of creation by dint of his heroism and cleverness.”

Felicia knew what came next: women. She moaned with guilt.

“But when Woman tried to escape,” said Yolande, “she could not, for she was stupid, and weak, and she was ruled by the demands of her whorish cunt. And so she sought help to escape. One by one, she found the Nine Impure Natures within the Labryinth, and for each one she spread her legs that it might fuck her. And with their help, she eventually found an escape from her prison. But every time she had allowed those Impure Natures to copulate with her, she had made that impurity an essential part of her. And when she finally escaped the Labyrinth, she therefore allowed that impurity to escape out into the pure world of Arth-Keros, forever tainting the perfect state of nature.”

Felicia had heard this at every public holiday as a child. She knew the sins of her gender. She felt a reflexive urge to ask Father Yolande to beat her tits as punishment.

“And so every woman, descended from that First Woman, bears the sin of her mother,” said Yolande. “Every woman is ruled by the Nine Impure Natures, and every woman deserves to be punished for that impurity. Were it not for men, women would have descended to live among the beasts, no different from them, and it is only through the grace of men that women enjoy an existence alongside their human masters.”

“I’m sorry,” Felicia heard herself moan. “I’m sorry.” She had heard this story before, but now it echoed within her in powerful ways that she had never previously felt. It wasn’t just an abstract story – it was an indictment upon her very identity, and she felt overwhelmed with guilt and inferiority.

“Girls, I will now walk among you,” said Father Yolande. “And when I grasp your breast and squeeze it painfully, you will tell me the name of one of the Nine Impure Natures, and how its curse affects you as a woman.”

There was a pause, and then Felicia heard a girl down the front of the class squeak with surprise and pain.

“Sassix the Paingiver!” she heard the girl say hurriedly. “He makes me understand I deserve to be in pain, that I might entertain men through my misery!”

Another squeak, from a different girl. “Quen the Dollmaker! Quen makes me a decoration, that I might please men’s senses.”

A third girl. “Arx, Lord of Rape! He makes me a hole, suitable only to be penetrated!”

The next voice was Kyra’s, and she didn’t so much squeak as moan sensually as Father Yolande squeezed her udder. “Gurush the Degrader,” she breathed. “He makes us a midden, to be degraded, and to receive the cum and piss of men.”

Another girl spoke. “Ulos the Herdmaster,” she said, “because we are stupid and docile like cows, and because we give milk from our udders.”

Next it was Felicia who felt Father Yolande’s hand on her tit. His squeeze wasn’t painful at all. It felt good, and Felicia wished he would squeeze her harder. “Ess-Kali the Leash-holder,” she said, remembering her father’s favourite of the Natures. “Who makes us pets to men, reliant on man to feed and cage us, and eager for man’s affection.”

A seventh girl spoke. “Nagthi the Impregnator,” she said, “who makes us slaves to our wombs, that we might receive seed and make new men.”

And an eighth girl. “Barrad the Slaver,” she said. “He makes us obedient to men, and naturally their property, and gives us the chance to ameliorate our worthlessness through serving men.”

This was the last girl, and so Father Yolande spoke now.

“Good girls,” he said. “And of course, the ninth and final Impure Nature is the one we are most dedicated to here at the convent – the Harem, the Threefold Curse, the Bitch Sisters. Their names are Lesba, Masture and Slutt, and they give girls the nature of the Performer, so that every aspect of their sexuality may please and entertain men. They are three, and yet one. Slutt is the Nature that gives you your arousal – so that the wetness of your cunt might enslave you to the service of men, and so that your urge to rape other women might bring them also into slavery. Masture is the Nature that governs your sexual pleasure – which exists only as a way of entertaining men, and allowing them to reward or discipline you.”

He paused.

“And, of course, Lesba is the aspect that governs your relationship with other women. She gives you desire for other women so that you might objectify them as your sex-toys, and use them to perform in front of men. And each of you little sluts have defiled that gift by expressing genuine affection for other women, and daring to have sexual relations with them while there was no man watching.”

His voice was harsh and cold now.

“Each of you is now going to lay your tits flat on the desk in front of you, and then beg me to whip them with my belt. I’ll only whip you if I believe you are genuinely regretful about ever treating other girls as anything but a sex-toy, and if you succeed in getting me to whip you, I will allow you to masturbate while you are being whipped. Begin now.”

The room instantly erupted in a babble of noise, as eight girls began to desperately beg for their breasts to be punished. Felicia was among them. She felt filled with guilt and shame. She knew that in lezzing off in secret with Kyra, she had perpetuated the same selfish, slutty behaviour by which the First Woman had corrupted the entire world. She thought of the horny, cruel slut that Kyra had become in the monastery – a girl who she had raped, who had raped other girls, who had competed with Felicia to please the cocks of the monks. How had she thought that girl had ever deserved respect?

And, most importantly, because she had once thought that, Felicia might now be denied the chance to masturbate to orgasm while her tits were being whipped. How could she have been so foolish?

“I’m sorry,” she babbled desperately. “I’m sorry. Please whip my tits. Please let me cum. Kyra is nothing but a cunt. She deserves to be raped. She’s just a thing I hump. Please whip me. Please whip my tits, Father. Please. Please.”

And she must have been convincing, because suddenly there was the CRACK of a leather belt, and she felt agonising pain bloom in her udders, and she smiled, because this was exactly what she deserved – what all women deserved – and as Father Yolande pulled the belt back for the second blow, she let her hand dip beneath the desk, and begin eagerly fingering her cunt…

THE END