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Message-ID: <63636asstr$1450116602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RavensDrkGothic@aol.com
Full-name: RavensDrkGothic
Subject: {ASSM} A Sister's Calling
Lines: 203
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 2015 13:10:02 -0500
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A Sister's  Calling (MF, Religion)
 
    Looking up at the small swath of blue  in the sky, spotting the bird as 
it slowly does a half circle to settle in the  small cemetery next to the 
old worn chapel and newer school building.  The  nun stood still, enjoying 
the rare bird in the mostly concrete jungle of the  inner city.  Well there 
are lots of pigeons; but a small blackbird, so  rare.  No parks nearby in this 
neighborhood, and shaking her head, thinking  that maybe a bird would not 
be safe in one of the parks either.  Wishing  that she might be like St. 
Teresa or St. Francis of Assisi and that all the  creatures would come willingly 
to her.  Some rabbit or deer or squirrel  with which to share her thoughts. 
 To soothe her troubled spirit, and maybe  take away her frustrations, her 
guilty thoughts.  Guilty in that she had  not confessed her sins of a few 
weeks ago.  She had confessed before and  since; but those of that day, no, 
shaking her head, no. 
    The simple life of a nun, away from  the hubbub of life; but for her 
wayward wards, her students.Lost as her thoughts  were often not on her 
classes, her duties as keeper of the chapel and  surrounding cemetery, her vows 
and dedication to the Church; but they focused  all too keenly on the long ago 
thoughts of a troubled girl.  One who joined  the convent to escape those 
hot sweaty dreams, that had her touching the spot  that was forbidden, that a 
good girl should not touch for pleasure.  The  touches less and less 
frequent as time wore on.  As she fell into the  routine, away from most desires 
real and imagined. 
    This neighborhood and the squalor and  ignorance of the people living 
here, the girls, so young and tummy full with a  baby.  The young men, really 
boys bragging in loud whispers of what girl  they had and what one would 
this or that, or what one was carrying their  child.  For a child, a young 
teenager to learn, to better themselves, the  odds little better then winning a 
lottery.  Seeing one succeed, go to  college or find a job and escape from 
this hell hole, these mean streets, was  what made it all doable.  Just the 
one or two, that with your help,  escaped, got away.
    Looking down at the bird and then at  the thick stone cross in the 
corner of the graveyard, causing the nun's mind to  slip into another world, a 
brief world of fantasy and horror.  Squeezing  her legs as a softy moan 
escapes her tightly close lips.  Remembering, the  day that now haunts her waking 
and sleeping hours.  The pain, the  suffering, the depraved torture and the 
exquisite pleasure of those long  hours.  The brutal gang rape and beating 
in another cemetery, one much more  beautiful and bucolic then this one; but 
one that has haunted her, made her less  aware of the real immediate world 
of her convent and school, and more aware that  besides being a nun and 
teacher, she is also a woman and  person. 
    That day, so few weeks ago, that is  what she has not confessed.  
Having told not a soul of her rape, her brutal  abuse at the hands of a gang, not 
in the City of New York at you would expect;  but in the small upstate City 
of Poughkeepsie.  Her birthplace, her  home.  Even the rape and beating and 
torture, she could confess.  She  had nothing to do with it, other then be 
a woman in the wrong place at the wrong  time.  It was that her body 
betrayed her and the rape turned into an orgy  of pleasure for her.  Her body 
enjoyed and then released itself of  pleasure.  She responded to the touches.  
She liked the touches.   Her body strained for the touches at the end.  And 
the pain, it blended  slowly into pleasure, increasing her pleasure, craving 
it as much as the touches  to her body of fingers and organs.  She regaled 
herself with the pain and  pleasure and humiliation.  Shaking her head at 
herself in disgust at her  depravity.
    This is the quandary that she faces,  feeling her face flushing as 
quick pictures flash in her mind, her body weak as  she feels her nerve endings 
alive, seeking stimulation.  That day still not  confessed, still filling 
her thoughts, still needing closure.
    As she stands in the dismal cemetery,  a drop of rain slides from the 
sky, the gray clouds choking the spot of  blue, then another series of drops, 
wetting the nun as she stands, looking up,  her tongue extending to touch a 
drop of the rain.  A young girl in a  woman's body, seeking a simple 
pleasure, feeling her gray vest and white button  blouse soaking up the rain, her 
skirt flattening out to her thighs, gently  outlining the soft curves.  Her 
black hose and flat sturdy shoes rounding  out her attire.  Head covered by 
a simple gray and white veil falling to  the middle of her back.  The cross 
of gold on her chest, her talisman  against evil.  Or so she thought. 
    Enjoying the kiss of moisture on her  face for a moment, looking around 
the cemetery, eyes spying a cross marking  one of the graves, remembering 
another cross, the one that she has been tied to  and sexually abused and 
sexually pleasured.  Sighing a long loud sound of  despair as she remembered 
that what she might endured and forgiven, became  something that she enjoyed 
and remembered with a flush of heat in her core,  a quivering.
    Slowly walking, wending her way  between the stones, to the old chapel. 
 The vine covered walls musty with  the smell of age.  Looking at the 
wrought iron fence around the small plot  of land, and then pulling the heavy 
door open.  Stepping into the dim  recesses of the small chapel.  The door 
slamming shut with a solid creaking  of worn hinges.  Tears welling in her 
swelling eyes, as she hurries up the  aisle, kneeling in the first pew, face 
raised to the cross behind the  altar.  Sobbing in a low voice, that magnified 
with the emptiness of the  small chapel.  Her heart awash with sorrow and 
guilt.
    The shadow against the wall  separating from the darkness of the side 
room.  Tall and clothed in black,  soft steps muffled by the woman's pained 
sobs.  Sliding into the pew  alongside of her, the shadows arm and shoulder 
brushing hers.  Looking  abashed as she sees the man next to her, looking at 
her with concern.  A  slow smile, showing the brightness of his teeth, 
around the dark flesh of  his face.  His voice soft and gentle.  "Sister Mary 
Patrice,  what ails you?  Life is not that bad."  His hand moving to the small  
of her back, patting the wet vest and blouse.  Hand sliding up and down,  
comforting the woman, as she kneels shivering with cold and with  more.
    Taking a deep breath, her long thin  fingers, wiping at her eyes as she 
seeks to collect her emotions.   Wondering what she might say to the priest 
alongside of her, what she might tell  him.  What she should have told him 
weeks ago.  Her shoulders  heaving again, as she is not able to tell of her 
ordeal.  To let the world,  even her small one, know of her defilement and 
worse her disgrace, her  depravity.  Looking shyly up at Father Zeb, her  
confessor. Turning her body half to him and leaning into  him, feeling his arms 
wrap comfortingly around her, holding her to his  chest.  The shivering of 
her body slowly ceasing.  His warmth, his  security a shield for the moment 
from her wayward spirit.
    Feeling the strength of his  encircling arms, the smell of his body and 
clothes.  In spite of where she  was and who she was with, her body 
trembling with feelings, a soft moan  escaping her throat.  Her face flushing with 
shame as she thought  impure thoughts as her priest held her in comfort.  
The tear drops  making their way from her brimming eyes, wetting Fr. Zeb's 
black jacket.   Sister Mary Patrice, aware of her wet clothing and how it 
molded to her  body and more aware of her nipples swelling in her simple white 
cotton  bra.  Her legs tensing, squeezing together.  The wet skirt, wetting  
her simple cotton panties, or was it something else.
    Looking up at the priest, then  disengaging herself from his arms, her 
first words, other then her moans of pain  and sorrow and pleasure.  "Bless 
me Father for I have sinned."  The  priest looking down at her, his hands 
holding her shoulders  gently.  Hearing the words of the middle age nun.  Her 
confession  of her rape and abuse, her confession of the pleasure that 
creeped into her  body as she was continued to be abused.  And finally her 
confession of  having release, sexual release as she accepted willingly what was  
offered her. Hiding her face in her hands, head bowed  weeping softly.
    The comforting words of the priest,  not absolving her from this event; 
but absolving her of the sins committed by  her.  Trying to explain to a 
Priest, a man so much younger then her, of her  transgressions and how she 
still commits sins of lust as she thinks on that  day.  Not daring to look up 
at his dark face, not wanting to see the  accusations.  Not seeing the look 
of more than a little interest in his  face.  His words and questions, 
prodding her mind and with each answer,  exciting her body.  Knowing herself lost 
as her virginal body, well mostly  virginal body of all these years, giving 
itself to the sins of the flesh, real  and now imagined.
    Finally in a torrent of tears and  moans, admitting that even as she 
tells the priest, even as she asks for  forgiveness, she is feeling excitement 
and pleasure.  "Come my innocent  lamb, let us pray together and ask for 
strength for you and forgiveness for your  transgressions."  His hand holding 
her chin and then turning her to face  the altar.  Their prayers loud in the 
empty chapel.  The nun  collecting her wits and joining with the priest in 
their fervent request to  God.
    Her voice strong and then breaking  with emotion as she feels the 
fingers caressing the back of her leg.   Sliding over her hose, as they rub the 
soft flesh.  A soft moan of loss, as  she feels her core tighten, her body in 
shock as she realizes that it isn't her  imagination.  It is a hand on the 
back of her leg, a priest's hand.   The strong fingers massaging her lower 
thigh, as it pushes her skirt up in the  back.  Lifting the material.  The 
nun, trying to pray aloud, and then  falling silent, but for soft expulsion of 
breaths.  The fingers moving  higher on the back of her thigh, sliding 
between them.  Bowing her head, as  she shifts on the kneeler, opening her legs.
    The young priest's breath warm and  sweet on her cheek as he whispers 
to her, "you need this Mary Patrice, we all  have needs."  Her body jerking 
as the long black fingers, move to touch the  swell of her lips in her 
panties.  Biting her lower lip, as the finger,  works the panties between her 
parted labia.  The dampness of her panties  testimony to the woman's response, 
her need.  Groaning softly, a low  whimper as the finger, slides up a panty 
leg and touches her hot swollen  pubes.  Her legs squeezing together, as her 
body wets the finger with her  juices.  Helpless now, the nun, lays forward 
on the front of the pew, her  legs spread wide, her hips rotating back, 
humping to the finger behind and  between her legs.
    The finger withdraws, with Sister  Mary Patrice, still pushing at the 
emptiness. Then she feels hands on her waist,  gliding her to stand, guiding 
her to move from the pew to the side room.   Walking numbly, well not 
numbly, but unable to think.  Her body a tingle  with sensation.  Walking into the 
small room and finding her lower body  touching the edge of a table, then 
feeling as her body is bent over, her hand  reaching across the table, 
gasping the other edge.  Feeling her skirt  raised and legs pushed wide.  The 
waistband of her cotton panties giving  out as the crotch is pushed to her left 
thigh.  Feeling the pulsation of  the warm cock as the priest leans into her 
back.  A soft groan, as the  thick cap parts her swollen lips, then slides 
into her wet pussy.  No words  escaping, but for the sound of heavy 
breathing and grunts of pleasure as the  long thick cock slides into the slippery 
hole of the nasty nun.  The table  legs grinding on the floor as the nun's 
body pushes at the edge with each long  hard stroke.  Her legs tensing and with 
a loud moan, her body twists and  shakes inside, her orgasm wet and quick.  
Feeling the juices sliding down  her trembling thighs, then feeling the 
priest slide out of her hole long strokes  later.  Pulling her around and 
gently pushing her to her  knees. 
    The thick capped cock glistening as  it parts her lips, filling her 
mouth with pulsating veined dark meat, coated  with her own juices.  Eyes 
watering as the priest just fucks her mouth, and  ejects his sperm into the warm 
cavity of her mouth.  Drops scalding the  back of her throat as she tries to 
swallow.  A long white rope of cum  hanging from her chin, as after four 
hard blasts of seed, the priest's fingers  slowly milk the remaining cum from 
his cock.  The strands filling behind  her lower lips, laying on her flat 
tongue.  Shyly looking down as she  swipes a hand across her chin, pushing the 
strand of cum into her mouth.   "Clean me."  The words causing her to raise 
her head and lick at the still  almost hard cock.  Tasting his cum and hers 
on the warm flesh.   Watching numbly as he takes it and zips it back in his 
black  slacks.
    Leaning down to look into the  upraised face of the sobbing nun, "we 
need to get you protected sister.  I  will arrange for you to visit a clinic 
in another  borough.  Kissing  her forehead gently.  This will be our secret 
Sister Mary Patrice."   Turning around and walking out of the dingy room.  
Sister Mary Patrice  kneeling on the floor having a new god to  
worship........
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