Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff /
Feature Title: THE SAINT AGNES PASSION 5 /
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 5
Kristen asked the obvious question.
“Where is everybody?”
“That is what I’d like to know,” Sister said.
“Maybe they went upstairs already.”
The student lounge on the second floor was where Sister had scheduled talks and discussions after Mass.
“We didn’t pass them,” Sister said. “And the bread hasn’t been touched.”
Behind the last pew, where Sister had first touched Kristen’s ass, a wicker basket and a pair of glass cruets — one with water, one with red wine— stood on a small table. The basket contained torn scraps of pita bread, which, when consecrated by the holy hands of Father White, would miraculously transubstantiate into the body of Christ. But the offerings had not been brought to the altar, where the candles were still lit, too. The Mass had never finished.
They stood side by side in the aisle, and as they studied the clues, Sister’s hand went up Kristen’s skirt again, fondling her ass through her panties. Kristen put an arm around Sister’s waist. Like all new lovers, they were drawn to one another unconsciously.
“He got bored and sent everyone home,” Sister said.
“That’s weird.”
“I think he’s having a crisis of fay-eth.”
“Or something,” Kristen said. “Why didn’t he put the stuff away?”
“Maybe he thought I’d do it. It’s a pity this door doesn’t lock.”
“There’s nobody here…”
They turned toward one another. Kristen laid her hands on Sister’s shoulders. Sister’s arms went around Kristen’s waist. They gazed into each other’s eyes like the lovesick schoolgirls one of them was.
“Kiss me, child,” Sister said.
Their lips touched lightly, slightly open, but the kiss quickly grew firmer, wider. Their cheeks sucked in. Their veined and stippled tongues glided together. Sister longed to drag hers everywhere on Kristen’s taut young body. Her cunt grew heavy. She reached for the cruet of wine.
“Here…” She raised it above Kristen’s head.
“Altar wine is so bad. It’s salty.”
“Not Father Charlie’s. He’s a connoisseur.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“That, too.”
Sister tipped the rounded glass, and the red stream flowed into Kristen’s open mouth. She timed her first two swallows perfectly, but on the third try, she gagged and coughed. The wine spilled down her chin, and the stream from above missed completely, staining her bosom.
“Ugh!”
“I’m sorry. You’re a mess, darling. Let me.”
Sister licked the glossy film from her lover’s chin, sucked it from her tongue. She raised the cruet to Kristen’s lips, then to her own. They went back and forth, sipping from the glass spout, licking it, kissing and squirting the tart wine from one mouth to the other. In this way they drained the vessel.
“My, that is good,” Sister said.
“My head is spinning.”
“Darling, do something for me.”
“What?”
“Purify me.”
Giddily, Kristen made the sign of the cross over her.
“Go, your sins are forgiven.”
“Shhh — don’t blaspheme in here!”
“Then what?”
She whispered her desire into Kristen’s ear.
“Eww — no!”
“Please!”
“What for?”
“My baptism.”
“Gross!”
“No, it’s not. It’s beautiful. And it will mark me as yours.”
“Where, then — down in the bathroom?”
“No — here. On the altar.”
Kristen laughed out loud.
“You’re bad!”
At Sister’s instruction, Kristen left her shoes, her socks, and her panties under the table and went and sat on the altar. There, swinging her bare feet gently, she watched as Sister, at the rear of the chapel, once again removed her clothing. She stripped methodically, carefully hanging each garment over the back of the last pew. From where she stood, she could look up Kristen’s skirt at the source of her joy and her cleansing. Kristen felt her gaze, and she opened her legs wider, raised her skirt higher.
At last, Sister took off even her cross. And when she was wholly exposed, she got down on her belly and crawled, like a penitent, the full length of the chapel. Kristen watched as the white body, with the pale red freckles on its shoulders, appeared around the corner of the front pew. It — and it pleased Sister to think of herself as an it— made its way slowly and painfully, lifting its ass and pushing itself forward with its knees, its arms at its sides. It dragged its tongue along the floor as it moved. The cold tiles drove its bolt-hard nipples back into its breasts.
When it was directly in front of the altar, it turned and slithered up the single step. It lay for a moment, arms wide like a cross, murmuring a prayer. Then it pushed itself to its knees and turned up its face.
“Do not look on what I truly deserve,” it said.
“I’ll tell you what you truly deserve,” Kristen said. “Get up here.”
She scooted aside, and Sister climbed onto the altar. They kissed lightly as she moved past. It took some bumping and maneuvering, but at last she lay east-west on the marble slab, head and feet at the ends. The altar was set with a white cotton runner that kept out the cold of the stone. The cloth was fringed with lace and set through with eyelets that were reinforced with thread, that she scratched her back against. It would make a good blotter.
“How?” Kristen asked.
“Stand up. No, here. Face that way.”
Kristen stood over her, straddling her like a colossus, with one bare foot tucked beside each bare breast. Sister looked up her skirt, at the white undercurves of her butt.
“Squat a little bit.”
The girl bent her knees, just enough to stick her ass out, and Sister saw the tight curls and the almond-shaped sliver of her pussy.
“Are you sure about this?” Kristen asked over her shoulder.
“Please.” She could barely hear herself.
“God, if I wasn’t so dizzy.”
Kristen flipped of her skirt off her ass and gathered the front to her tummy. Everything was visible now, her asshole and her puffy cunt lips and the tips of two fingers squeezing her clitoris.
“Ready?”
The fingers stretched the lips apart. Sister saw, or thought she saw, the speck of an opening. Kristen clenched her pussy, relaxed it, clenched it again. For an unendurable moment, nothing. Sister’s heart hammered in the silence. She felt herself ready to cry out when Kristen said, “Here it comes!” and a golden pillar shot from the sky. She opened her mouth to it. The flood was salty and hot, and it filled her nearly to the lips before she gagged and spat it out.
My cup runneth over. She yelped with delight.
The air smelled of roasted nuts, sweet as the chrism she remembered from confirmation. I name thee Joanna, the bishop had said. She massaged the fragrant oil into her breasts, her belly and her red pussy hair. There was so much. Blinded by the stinging rain, she heard it patter to the floor.
The stream slackened, and she lay panting, feeling as weak as she had ever felt. A few last drops fell between her breasts, but just as she was raising a leaden hand to wipe her eyes, a sudden after-squirt caught her dead in the face. She had to laugh.
“You liked that?” Kristen asked.
Sister was too breathless to respond, but Kristen sensed what she wanted next. Or maybe she was only tired of squatting. She folded her legs beneath her, and her cunt descended like a tongue of fire, growing in Sister’s sight, and rested on her lips.
Sister wiped the peehole with her tongue. The girl sighed and weighed more heavily on her face. The skirt covered her eyes, but Sister could feel Kristen moving around and — yes. She was taking off her shirt. And her bra.
When she lay down and put her mouth on Sister’s pussy, she writhed on Sister’s belly, mopping the pee with her titties. Firm little titties. A finely shaped ass, a willing cunt open for her mouth. The Lord provides. They settled into a 69 for an extended session of mutual pleasuring, innocent of the fact they were being watched.
Father White’s cock rose deep into Suzie Nguyen’s welcoming pussy. At the apogee of penetration, she squeezed expertly, and the tip quivered like a spring. He stifled a grunt, forcing his breath out through his nose, but he still wasn’t quiet enough for the girl who was bouncing merrily on his dick. She looked at him reproachfully over her bare shoulder, a finger pressed to her lips. Then she faced front again. Her skirt was draped about his lap, but from the waist up, she was nude. He held her with his hands cupped over her titties as she leaned forward, balanced on his cock, and drew the curtain aside.
Through the thin gap, he saw one end of the altar, with a white crescent, like the limb of the moon, floating above Sister Patrice’s bared head. He couldn’t quite tell what the crescent was until it sent forth a glittering ray of gold. The shaft widened as it fell, breaking into a string of amber beads that danced on Sister’s face and naked tits. And at the hour of her degradation, the young nun was transfigured before his eyes. He had never beheld such a look of angelic transport, least of all in himself when, after hours of prayer, he told himself he must be filled with the Holy Spirit. Here was a genuine mystic radiance, brought on not by prayer but by a filthy sacrilege — although, to be honest, it was no filthier and no more sacrilegious than fucking a student in a confessional.
Sister Patrice had been right, in part. Father Charles had sent the girls home, but he hadn’t been bored. He’d been enraged. The little brown slut wasn’t wearing panties, and when she first walked into the front pew, she’d lifted her skirt quickly just before she sat down. Then the nun had followed the willowy girl out into the hall, and he thought, She’s got hers. I want mine.
He finished the reading, kissing the page, and launched without pause into his homily. It was a proudest moment of his career, a torrent of Old Testament fury. He spared them nothing. He changed not a word. He called them tramps and sluts, and when he was through, they looked up at him with stunned, tear-glazed faces — all but one, who sat in the pew with her skirt hiked up. He tore his eyes away from the yellow tattoo.
“All right,” he said. “You now know the truth about yourselves. I don’t think we need to go on. All of you, get the hell home. And think about what you’ve done.”
The fat girl who had read from Saint Paul spoke up: “We haven’t done anything!”
“Get out! You” — pointing at the slut — “stay here.”
She sat with that infuriating smirk as the others filed out in sullen silence, and when they were alone, she matter-of-factly walked up to the altar and jumped into his arms. She hung on him like a monkey, arms around his neck, legs around his middle. He held up with his fingers linked beneath her bare bottom.
“That was awesome,” she said.
“You needed to hear it. You, most of all. You sinned right here in the chapel, in front of Almighty God.”
“Confession?” she said.
“It won’t do any good. You need to be sincerely sorry.”
They kissed. This time, she did not resist him. This time, it was her idea.
“But,” he said when she broke it off, “with God all things are possible.”
So here he was, with his robe around his waist and his pants at his ankles, watching a lesbian pee party.
It lasted less than a minute before the girl, wrung dry, sat on the nun’s face. She threw away her shirt and bra, and he understood Sister’s yearlong obsession. The girl was a lithe dream, with a slender body and darling little tits. She lay down on top of Sister’s body, and for the moment was lost to view. All he could see of her was her bare foot beside Sister’s head, and the pleated skirt that covered her ass.
Sister rolled the skirt away. Her red hair, stiff and spiked with piss, shook like a wet dog, and her nose bobbed behind the girl’s porcelain butt. He couldn’t see how eagerly her tongue worked, but he could hear it: a moist popping sound reached them from the altar. They were so involved with one another, pushing one another toward climax, that he felt safe enough to take a better look. He reached around the brown monkey and touched the curtain. The monkey understood and took over for him, holding wide the heavy red velvet so he could get back to his primary duties — squeezing her tits and fucking her. Wedged on his lap, she gripped the beech-wood half-door to the booth and shoved her ass into his groin. He had to compliment himself: he really did have a nice big dick. His talents were wasted in the priesthood.
He could see all of the girl on top now, and she was as eager a pussy-eater as her mentor. Her tongue fluttered behind the hanging vines of her hair as she lapped at Sister’s clit.
But she never finished her job: Overwhelmed by the mastery of Sister’s tongue, she raised her head, her mouth frozen wide with astonishment. Her face turned scarlet, and a strangled rasp rose in her throat. If she wasn’t coming, she was close.
He was, too. The monkey’s cunt held him like a greasy fist, and every nerve in his body, it seemed, was wired to the jittery tip of his cock. The juice from her hole squished in his pubic hair with each backward thrust of her ass.
The naked girl on the altar was hissing. No, she was murmuring the word “Sister,” but the only sound that pierced the empty chapel was the repeated, sibilant S. She wrapped her arms around Sister’s legs, wriggling her cunt closer into the nun’s mouth. For a noticeable instant she seemed suspended in space, motionless, and then the word “Sister!” rang out, and her whole body quaked. She clung to Sister Patrice like a bareback rider on a runaway horse, flushed with the thrill and the danger of losing control.
At the same time, the monkey shuddered, rattling the confessional door in her hands, and he saw the folly of holding back.
And at this, the moment of his blackest mortal sin, a vision flashed across his mind and was gone. In the sign of three simultaneous orgasms, he beheld the Trinity.
It was the girl on the altar who first got the big picture. When her climax had passed, she lay with her head turned toward them, resting on the pillow of Sister’s red bush. Her eyes were closed, but soon she opened them and her face registered, in quick succession, confusion, surprise, terror and amusement. She groaned and began to laugh. The monkey waved at her.
“Hey, you two,” she called.
Sister’s green eyes turned toward them, shiny with panic. She squirmed, desperate to escape, unaware that what was happening in the confessional absolved her of any consequences. Her convulsions grew so violent the girl on top of her had to climb down.
Sister rolled off the altar and hid behind it. The girl went around to get her.
“It’s OK,” she said. “It’s just Suzie.”
She drew Sister gently to her feet. With a modesty that made him smile, the nun tried to cover her breasts and crotch.
“Chuck?” she called. “Oh my God.”
“Looks like we all had the same idea,” he called back.
Sister Patrice came up the aisle. The monkey sank into his chest, tipping her head onto his shoulder. She regarded the nun coolly, and even held up her skirt to show off the point where Father Chuck’s post plugged her sloppy cunt. He was conscious of his balls resting between his thighs, and of the rubber ring at the base of his dick.
“It’s OK,” he said. “She made me wear a condom.”
“How thoughtful she brought one to Mass.”
“You should talk,” the monkey said.
Sister looked back at Kristen, who stood barefoot and topless beside the altar. Then she looked again at the post-coital couple in the booth. Then she looked somewhere, nowhere, in between. Her skin glowed with dried pee, and she realized she stank.
“So,” she said finally. “Who’s hungry?”
THE END OF CHAPTER FIVE