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 1

Kristen Lamb stirred uneasily in her seat. There were ten minutes left in the school day, and every second weighed on her like an armload of books. She couldn’t wait to get out of there. At the front of the room, Sister Patrice was going on about the mystery of the Blessed Sacrament. Sister Patrice was a wonderful teacher, and Kristen adored her, but this afternoon she couldn’t keep her mind on her lesson, even a lesson about God, delivered in Sister Patrice’s musical brogue.

The girls at St. Agnes Academy had switched over to their spring uniforms this week — trading their green-plaid jumpers for khaki skirts, white knit tops with the St. Agnes crest on the left (Kristen’s was green, to denote her lowly status as a freshman), white knee-highs and oxblood loafers — but today, even the lighter-weight clothing felt as airless as rubber.

The April sunlight, angling though the windows, was hot on her shoulder. Her socks were damp with perspiration, and her panties chafed the hard tendons between her crotch and her thighs. Her bra felt tight. She could imagine the red grooves it was digging under her arms. All she wanted to do was get home, strip off her uniform and lie down on the cool, crumpled sheets of her unmade bed. She gave her skirt an upward tug and parted her knees, letting in a touch of air.

It wouldn’t be a sin, she was sure. If she was alone, and no one could see her, where was the shame in taking off her clothes? Or admiring her legs, or the way her small breasts leaned away from one another, flattening at her breastbone, bulging delicately at the sides, as she lay on her back? Vain, maybe, but not sinful, not really. Kristen took seriously her Church’s teachings on sexuality, and she’d promised herself she would remain a virgin until the day she married. Then her husband, whoever he might be, would fill her with his love — a sacramental act that, to be holy, must be open to the transmission of life. She glanced at the pathetic bumps beneath her shirt, and she imagined a child sucking her bare breast. Stretching the stiff nipple, kneading it between its wet gums. Sucking so hard —

“Miss Lamb? Miss Lamb!

Kristen fell back to the present with a jolt, and there was Sister Patrice, giving her an understanding smile.

“Miss Lamb, I know it’s a beautiful day, and we’d all much rather be out-soyde, but if you’d give me your attention for another foyve minutes, you might learn something more about your fay-eth.”

A mocking laugh went up among the other girls, but Sister cut it short with a raised hand.

“Be charitable,” she said. “If you learn nothing else in this class, learn that.”

Dear Sister Patrice! She never raised her voice. She never embarrassed anyone — not like mean old Sister Saint Augustine, Kristen’s math teacher. If she had caught Kristen daydreaming, she would have hauled her up to the front of the room and smacked her bottom with a yardstick. She made her victims pull their skirts up and show their panties. Spanking ninth-graders like they were little kids: there was something pervy about that. And a senior told her a story once about a girl who wasn’t wearing panties when her turn came. Kristen didn’t believe it. It had to be a school legend, something everybody knew but no one had seen, even though the upperclassman swore it was true.

Kristen shook off the image. She straightened up in her chair, resolved to pay attention, only to find one more distraction to deal with. Lying on her open catechism was a piece of notepaper, torn from a spiral pad and folded twice. Suzie must have passed it to her while she was daydreaming. Kristen glanced across the aisle, but Suzie was facing front like nothing was going on. Kristen could see only the edge of her brown profile behind the sheet of her black hair. She opened the note slowly, when Sister wasn’t looking, and read, in Suzie’s loopy handwriting —

Sister Patrice has big tits!

Oh, of all the stupid things! What was her problem? Suzie knew Kristen was a good girl, and she was always talking dirty to shock her. Kristen liked the naughtiness, the flirting with sin, but to write something that crude about a teacher as nice as Sister Patrice was too much. She folded the note again and hid it inside her skirt, under her leg. She looked back across the aisle. Suzie, eyes still front, was pressing her lips together, like she was holding back a laugh.

The joke really was on Kristen. Now she couldn’t help but think about Sister Patrice’s breasts. And Suzie was right: they were big. It was a pity no baby would ever suck on them. Sister was young, only a couple years out of college, or the novitiate, or boot camp, or wherever it was a nun became a nun. She wasn’t as tall as Kristen, but she was round and womanly everywhere Kristen was straight and boyish, and her black habit, cinched at the waist, only drew the eye to the swells of her hips and boobs. Her veil perched on a half globe of orange hair that swept across her forehead, skirting the high arches of her eyebrows. The eyes themselves were an ever-changing green, their value shifting with the light: spring leaves, then a churning sea; jade, then pine. Her cheeks were full, but her chin was sharp, and when she turned her head just so, Kristen saw, behind the veil, curling points at the tips of her ears. She looked like a voluptuous elf.

What did she look like when the habit came off? This was sinful, imagining someone else’s body — and a nun’s body, too — but Sister had to undress sometime, if only to take a shower. Her breasts would bounce and jiggle as she massaged them with soap, and she’d lift them in her slippery fingers, daring a proud smile at their fullness and weight. Here, Sister, let me do that for you. Kristen, naked, took the almond-scented bar, rubbed it between her hands, and when they were thick with foam, placed them gently over the pointed hemispheres…

The bell rang.

All at once, everything was chatter and motion, in the classroom and the hall. The other girls packed up and headed for the door. Kristen slumped in relief.

“Tomorrow is Holy Thursday,” Sister said over the din. “The front doors will be locked. If you’re coming for the retreat, come in through the rear entrance and meet in the chapel. Ten AM. I hope to see you all they-er.”

“You’re a freak,” Kristen said. “You’re trying to get us killed.”

“It is our duty to bear witness to the truth,” Suzie said. That was what Sister Patrice had said about the faith.

“That’s not what she meant.”

“How to you know what she meant? Truth is truth.”

Sister had said that, too.

They were the farthest from the door and the last ones out. Kristen followed Suzie across the room. Sister was erasing the word “accidentals” from the chalkboard.

“Will I see you young ladies tomorrow?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I think so,” Kristen said.

“You think so? Let your yes be yes, and your no be no.”


“That’s excellent.” She put down the eraser and turned around, wiping the chalk dust from her hands.

“What about you, Miss Nguyen?”

“We don’t have to, do we?” Suzie said.

“No, you don’t have to, but I think you can use the pray-yer much more than Kristen.” Sister had the most beautiful way of trilling her r’s.

“OK,” Suzie said, like was being asked to a dance.

“Well don’t be tew excited,” Sister said.

And Suzie’s note, which Kristen was smuggling out of the room stuck to the back of her thigh, peeled off and parachuted to the floor.

“You’ve dropped something,” Sister said.

Always humble, always helpful, Sister bent over to pick it up, but Kristen was quicker.

“It’s all right,” she said. She stepped on the paper, then got it herself.

But it was a mistake. Her panic had showed, and it only aroused Sister’s suspicions.

“Let me see that,” she ordered.

Kristen had no choice but to hand it over. Sister examined the note intently, and Kristen went cold all over as she watched her life come to an end.

“How about the both of you stay after class?” Sister said finally. “Miss Lamb, you have just volunteered to clean the room. And when you are finished, you wait here until I re-ter-rn. You — Miss Nguyen — come with me.”

“See ya,” Suzie said.

She was in a lot of trouble — a shitload of trouble, she would say — and it didn’t seem to faze her. Nothing fazed her.

The door shut, leaving Kristen cut off, trembling with rage and fear. Darn Suzie. No — damn her. God damn her. God damn her to fucking hell. How’s that for breaking the Second Commandment? She’d been inches away from her Easter break, and now she was being punished for a stupid joke that she didn’t even make. Who knows how long she’d have to stay after, or how many days detention she’d get? They’d probably call her mother, too. Maybe even suspend her.

Worse yet, it would be hours before she could get home and strip.

Kristen dropped her catechism on Sister’s desk. She went to the back of the room, and, taking hold of the long-handled broom that was leaning against the wall, she proceeded to march through the aisles. Down one, up the next, down the third, never lifting the bristles. It sucked, but work helped her breathe, and every few moments, she forgot the trouble she was in.

The noises in the hall died away. One last locker smacked shut, and the school was silent. The girls of St. Agnes Academy were free, all of them but Kristen. And Suzie, but Suzie didn’t give a shit.

Kristen swept the floor soot into a dustpan and dumped it into the wastepaper basket. She put the broom back where she found it. Next to it stood a bucket of snot-green water with a fat sponge floating in it. Kristen wrung out the sponge and wiped down the chalkboards. A drop of the dirty water crawled up her arm and into her sleeve. It was gross, but the cold tickle in her armpit felt nice. It was the only relief she’d have for a while.

When she was done, she showed some extra initiative, straightening the girls’ desks. Sister noticed that sort of thing. Maybe she’d go easier on her. Kristen sat at a desk in the middle aisle, at the front of the room. There was nothing left to do but pray. The Blessed Mother would understand she was innocent, even if Sister Patrice did not. She undid the two top buttons of her shirt, and reaching inside, she clutched the gold cross that hung about her neck. She closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently to the Hail Mary. Maybe, if she had thought to do this when she first saw Suzie’s note, she wouldn’t be in so much trouble now. Certainly, she wouldn’t have committed the sin of imagining Sister Patrice in the shower.

“Yes, gur-r-l, pray. Pray for all you are wer-r-th.”

Kristen opened her eyes. Sister Patrice stood over her. She had entered the room without a sound, the way the risen Jesus appeared to his disciples.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked. “Well?”

“I didn’t write that,” Kristen said.

“But you got a dirty laugh out of it, didn’t you? When I was a gur-r-l in Dublin, if I had been caught with a piece of filth like that, they would have flayed me alive. The Irish nuns had no mercy. But you American girls, you have to be treated like fine china.”

“Where’s Suzie?” Kristen asked.

“She is being taken care of,” Sister said. “It’s you I want to talk to.”

She brought her chair over from behind her desk and placed it sideways in the aisle.

“Face me.”

Kristen turned in her seat, and their knees touched when Sister sat down.

“You are a veddy good gur-r-l,” Sister said. “I see how devout you are, and I think, of all my students this year, you might be the one to have a vocation. Did you ever think of that?”

“Yes, Sister. Sometimes.”

“But the company you keep—”

She placed three fingertips on Kristen’s bare knee. Light as the touch was — angel-light — it sent a ripple up her thigh. Her panties felt tighter than ever.

She imagined Sister in the shower again — one more sin to add to the list, brought on by another random thought she couldn’t help. But she didn’t dare glance at Sister’s breasts.

“Listen to me, child,” Sister said. “That girl is a bad influence. I hear her using foul language, and joking about … indecent things. You don’t enjoy that, do you?”

“No, Sister.”

“And yet I see you drawing closer together all the time. Can you tell me why you two are friends?”

Did those three fingers move? Yes. They had snuck under the hem of her skirt. The full palm was resting on her knee.

“You have such lovely legs,” Sister said. “When the young men looked at me, with their indecent thoughts, they looked at my breasts. When they look at you, I’m sure they look at your long, lovely legs.”

The soft hand went all the way up her skirt. It came all the way back.

“How would you feel if someone wrote an obscenity about them?”

“Suzie wrote it, not me—”

“Deny her once more, and the cock will crow,” Sister said. “Is there anything between the two of you? Anything inappropriate?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a holy fool,” Sister said. “Have the two of you ever had a lesbian experience?”

“No, Sister!”

“Calm down.”

Miraculously, she produced a tissue and dabbed the wet corner of Kristen’s eye.

“Then what is the hold she has on you?”

“I don’t know. She’s—”

“She’s what?”

“She’s the only friend I’ve made here.”

“Stop your crying.”

But being told to stop only brought it on. Sister leaned in, clasping her by the neck.

“Shh,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m not angry.”

She drew the girl toward her, and she kissed her on her forehead, and on her wet eyes, and on her wet nose. And on her mouth.

How weird was this? Sister had just asked her if she was a lez, and now she was acting like one. The Church says it’s wrong for girls to kiss other girls. But this was Sister Patrice doing it, the woman who spoke to her every day about the fine gradations of guilt and sin. And yet her lips were soft, and reassuring.

“It’s all right,” Sister said. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

She ran her hand up and down Kristen’s thigh, raising the flesh in needle-fine bumps.

“Stand up,” she commanded. Kristen obeyed, and Sister’s fingers dug between her legs.

“Soaked,” Sister said. “What have you been thinking of, you wicked thing — my big tits?”

“It’s warm today,” Kristen said.

“That’s not sweat, child. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? A girl gets wet — down there — when she is sexually aroused. And you are very sexually aroused.”

She rubbed through Kristen’s panties, and something new, some strange power, wrung Kristen’s guts from deep inside. Her knees gave, and she had to grab Sister’s shoulder to keep from falling.

“Do you ever touch yourself like this?”

“No, S’ster.”

“Do you like it?”


“Tell me the truth.”

“Yes, S’ster.”

“That’s God’s gift,” Sister said. “But we must be strong.”

Sister stood, too, and, with Kristen’s skirt bunched over her wrist, she tugged at the waistband of her panties. The air seemed to rush in as the seal was broken, and Sister’s soft hand went down inside.

One finger easily slipped through the hairy husk that guarded Kristen’s soft spots, and it found that funny, flicky bump near the top. Kristen had wondered about it since she was little, what it was for, peeping out at her when she washed. It felt nice when she’d touched it, but never like this, tightening her jaw and clenching her butthole and curling her toes and —

“Don’t come, child. Don’t.”


“This is a test. It is important that you control yourself. It’s sin if you don’t.”

Sister was just tall enough to kiss Kristen’s neck. What was that a test for? But it sent a luscious chill down her leg. She didn’t dare ask what was going on. She couldn’t speak, anyway. The only sound she made was a stuttering series of short, choking gurgles.

She could feel herself leaking. Sister’s fingers slipped and glided over that swollen bump, circled it, mashed it. They slid along the wet groove between her legs, and one, then another, sank into her buttery hole.

Sister stepped up the pressure, so gradually that Kristen didn’t notice just when rubbing left off and the jerking and pumping began. Before she knew it, Sister’s hand was thrashing about in her cunt. The helpless girl nearly fell to the floor. She flung back her head and clung to Sister’s shoulders. The forbidden thing was happening, and she was powerless to stop it.

“Don’t, child,” her teacher said. “Don’t you fucking come.”

“Sister, you said fu — ah!

The word was choked off, and a red fog blinded her as the first orgasm of her young life pierced her like a spear. Something — blood? water? — flowed from her vagina, and her strength drained away with it. In her weakness, she surrendered. Willingly. She loved the fingers inside of her, the mouth on her neck. They both knew she had failed the test, and yet Sister kept on, kissing and licking her face, unlocking the mystery of down there. A second thrust of pleasure transfixed her, then a third.

“You see?” Sister said. “You see how overwhelming the urge can be?”

“Nobody ever told me it would be like that!

“We failed this time, but that’s all right. We’ll try again, and again and again, until you’re worthy. Do you want to be worthy of a vocation?”

“Yes, Sister, I do.”

“I have to go now. I have to go. I want you to go home and say a rosary. And come to the retreat tomorrow ready to pray. And not a word to anyone — promise me, darling?”

“I promise, Sister.”

“That’s a good gur-r-l. You know it’s a sin to reveal the secrets of the order.”

She gave Kristen a lingering kiss on the mouth. Then she turned away and was gone.

Kristen sat down. She stayed there a long time, not wanting to move, with her skirt hiked up and her panties half off her butt. They were soggy, and they itched. She took them all the way off. No one would know, and the air was cool on her crotch. She looked at it with fascination. Yes, exposing herself was another sin, but not as big a sin as the one that just happened.

But she was mixed up, because she didn’t feel sinful. She felt … great. The only thing that spoiled it was that Sister Patrice had run off so fast. Kristen missed the fullness of Sister’s fingers inside her. She wanted to lie in Sister’s arms, doze against her beautiful breasts, and inhale the clean scents of her starched habit and her almond soap.

“Next time,” she told herself, and she got to her feet.

The spot around her was in disarray. As her final Christian duty, Kristen straightened the desks again and returned Sister’s chair to its proper place. No one would know anything had happened here. But Kristen knew, and she’d think of it every day she set foot in this classroom, from now until graduation. She started to stuff her panties in her skirt pocket, but checked herself, and, with a grin that bespoke her newfound knowledge of good and evil, she picked up her catechism from Sister’s desk, left her panties in its place, and went home.


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