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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Conventional Sex
by Anonymous (address withheld)
***
In the year after I turned 13, three incredible things
happened to me. The first two sucked. I guess the third
did too, but you'll get that joke later. (Fm-teen, ped,
oral, 1st, sacrilegious)
***
The first thing was that I hit puberty. Like a brick
wall.
One day I was a normal kid, a decent second-baseman in
the school softball games, no problem bigger than
sweating out whether I'd get a C- or a D+ in penmanship
from Sister Mary Margaret. Sister Margaret had taught
penmanship, and nothing but penmanship, for it seemed
like a hundred years. Anyway, she'd taught my sister,
who was six years older than me, and she looked old
enough to have taught my mom and dad, too.
Nothing I could do for Sister Margaret was as good as
my sister had done, as the old nun was very open about
telling me. Since my going to the summer Scout camp was
dependent on keeping all my grades passing -- even
though penmanship didn't count toward graduation -- I
couldn't just ignore Sister Margaret's crotchetiness.
It did seem that the harder I gripped the No. 2
Eberhard-Faber, the worse my loops got, but I was
confident I could curl them enough to squeak out the C.
Then everything went nuts. All of a sudden I was
missing easy grounders and throwing 12 feet over the
head of Eddie, the first-baseman. I couldn't seem to
control any muscle, most importantly the ones in my
fingers. My handwriting looked like the chart of a
drunk's stumble down a dark alley. And one gray, rainy
morning I got up and looked in the mirror and some
stranger was looking back. Some ugly kid with big red
pimples all over his face. And it was me.
For the rest of my life, I have studiously avoided
reading anything about adolescence, because I don't
want to know just how late I was to the party. All I
know was that I at last understood why our class
softball team had sucked so mightily the year before.
We weren't that great as eighth graders, either, but
that was mostly because several key players skipped a
lot of the weekend games to spend time with girls. I
began to get a vague inkling why they thought that was
a better way to spend their time, too.
You might think that having a klutz at second would
contribute to our team's weakness as well, but that
only lasted a couple of games. No, I didn't get any
better, not for a year or two. But Coach Carlson yanked
me from the starting lineup in favor of some guy with
six hairs already sprouting on his upper lip and I
spent the next two weekends riding the bench before I
finally threw in my glove.
I don't blame the coach, because my screw-ups had
clearly cost us the last game I started. At least
that's what everyone else on the team pointed out to
me, repeatedly.
In fact, my teammates, in the spirit of constructive
criticism, conceived the nickname "Goony Bird" for me,
as a way to gently remind me that my flailing arms and
stumbling running were not up to their athletic
standards. It was only years later, when I had no
friends left who had known me when, that I was able to
shorten that to "Bird" and convince my new friends that
I'd been so tagged because my basketball ability
reminded people of the Celtics great. I was able to put
that over, I think, because I had finally grown into my
arms and legs.
But I don't want you to think that I was some repulsive
freak as a kid. Well, at least, not any more repulsive
than any other boy who's suffered massive hormone
overload. If I kept to a slow, steady pace I could
actually put one foot in front of the other without
tripping myself. And the photo I still have of me
leading the Easter procession, cross held high
overhead, white surplice and red cassock flapping in
the spring breeze, shows a rather handsome youth. We
won't mention how many boxes of Stridex it took to make
that so.
I didn't get the top spot in the processional on looks
alone. I wasn't even the tallest one in our group of
altar boys. But Sister Margaret, who doubled as
sacristan and Uberfuhrer of altar boys, wasn't about to
let Peter Burke take first place. Pete was a few inches
taller than me, and about 30 pounds heavier. All
muscle. Including his brain, as it happened.
Pete was the only kid I ever knew who had been sent to
military school -- after fourth grade, a remarkably
early exit -- and had made a comeback (two years later)
at Ss. Swithin and Melchior's. Rumor had it his family
had paid heavily to get him readmitted when even the
goons at Wayne Academy couldn't beat sense into him,
but I believe it could be entirely coincidental that
his return to Ss. S&M was followed only two weeks later
by groundbreaking for the new convent.
Whatever grease had been applied to slip Pete back into
parochial school, it wasn't enough to get him any
special favors from the nuns. He was plunked into the
front of every classroom -- so the nuns could keep an
eye on him -- and into the back of every procession, so
the congregation wouldn't notice him.
The top spots were reserved for the best students. I
was one of them. In fact, I was the top student, and
that was the second incredible thing that happened to
me that year.
I had always been a better-than-average student, never
coming in any lower than 10th among the 50 or so kids
in our year, but never rising any higher than fourth.
Aside from Ken Rondini, a curiously neat kid with a
strong resemblance to Alfalfa in the old "Our Gang"
series (if Alfalfa had been mown down to scarcely more
than four feet tall), who occasionally bobbed up as
high as second place in grades and won every other
spelling bee, the top spots in our class were always
taken by girls: Betty, the goodie-goodie; Linda, the
heavy-lidded immigrant who began wearing a bra in
kindergarten; and Ann, one of those spectacularly
unremarkable people, the kind who always hang around
the edges of fame, accepted by the stars of life
because they so clearly will never challenge for the
top. Remember those expendable crewmen in "Star Trek?"
Same kind of personality.
Anyway, in eighth grade the girls in the class suddenly
sank in the rankings. It seemed almost as if they had
decided being smart was no longer a good thing. Being a
good feminist -- having had that philosophy beaten into
me by my older sister, in fact -- I now realize that is
exactly what happened, a horrible effect of our male-
dominated culture's insistence that women must subsume
their intellectual gifts or risk scaring away potential
mates. Back then, I just thought the girls went all
goofy.
Whatever the reason, I suddenly found myself contending
with Rondini for the best grades. School seemed to turn
into nothing more than a succession of spelling bees
and math quizzes and geography drills, and time and
again it came down to Rondini and me, mano a mano -- or
at least as mano as a wisp like Rondini could get. He
had always been the butt of much classroom humor, and
as we were increasingly singled out in competition,
whatever he had rubbed off on me. It stunk.
Worse yet, Rondini crumbled under the pressure. It
showed up first in the spelling bees, where he began to
insert irrelevant A's and inadvisable S's and once,
memorably, let loose a very unfortunately timed P. The
competition was over almost before it had begun, and by
the Christmas holidays I stood alone, head and
shoulders above the rest of my class. Of course, the
worst thing about standing out in a crowd is that it
makes aiming at you much, much easier. Everyone who
hadn't made fun of me in fall because of my ineptitude
on the diamond now piled on because I was too smart for
my own good.
Unless you have ever been the smartest person in your
group, you can't know just how awful that is. I say
this with no false humility, because by the time I got
to college women had changed their minds about the need
for brains. They had also changed their minds about the
length of their hemlines, and the combination of
competition and distraction pulled me sharply back into
the middle of the pack.
But grade school was a simpler and harsher time. I was
typecast as the bumbling brainiac, and I hated it. In
class I daydreamed of being just an ordinary kid. My
daydreams were usually interrupted when one nun or
another called on me to answer. Proving how dumb I was,
I always answered and almost always answered correctly.
This was not the way to sink into blissful mediocrity.
I thought about purposefully getting answers wrong, but
when my name was called my Pavlovian little brain
insisted on spitting out the right ones.
The one answer I couldn't figure out was how to escape
my role as the geek of the class. Then, one morning,
the glimmer of an answer appeared.
It started when Eddie -- the first-baseman -- and I
were serving 6 a.m. Mass. It was a cozy affair, three
old ladies, one snoozing bum, Fr. Pascalitis and us,
all alone in a church the size of a zeppelin hangar.
You don't know what early morning is until you've spent
one trying to prop your eyes open in a barn filled with
the scent of decades-old incense while some guy's
snores are turned into the drone of a Sopwith Camel by
the echoing walls.
Not that Eddie and I worried too much about what would
happen if we did take a nap. Fr. Pascalitis, who we
suspected knew Latin so well because his parents had
spoken it as a first language, could mumble his way
from start to finish in the old rites without any
assistance from us. That was good, because he spoke so
quietly that we couldn't catch the few syllables we
used as cues for our bell-ringing, and he moved his
arms so little we couldn't watch for those telltale
signs, either. Sometimes we just rang the bell to see
if we could wake the bum, and Fr. Pascalitis didn't
seem to notice.
His lack of concern might have had something to do with
the way he safeguarded the bottle of sacramental wine
he reserved for his special use. It seemed somewhat
paler and smelled considerably more powerful than the
stuff Sister Margaret would set out for the parish's
other two priests. We used to say that Fr. Pascalitis
had the only 80-proof Jesus-in-a-bottle in the world.
On the day I'm talking about, Eddie and I got to church
around 5:30. Because it was Fr. P's week to do the 6
a.m., we didn't have to prepare the cruets of wine and
water; he always took care of that himself. Come to
think of it, that water had a bit of a punch to it as
well. This was back in the days before the congregation
got anything more than a wafer at Communion, though, so
we never got a taste for ourselves.
Anyway, with time to kill, we occupied ourselves trying
to write stuff on the 12-foot-high ceiling of the
sacristy, using the smoke from the four-foot-long
candle lighters. Ss. S&M had been around a long time;
it was hard to find a spot that wasn't already covered
by soot.
Comes Mass time and we trotted out with Fr. P, taking
his usual shortcut across the front of the church
rather than going all the way to the back and up the
middle aisle. Things were going along smoothly and
Eddie and I were playing tic-tac-toe by scratching our
fingernails into the green plush of the handrails on
our kneelers when we heard a clang and a few words that
were shocking not only because they were English --
this was a year or two before the Latin Mass declined -
- but also because we'd never heard anyone in a cassock
(ourselves excluded) saying things like that, let alone
in church.
We looked up to see the white altar cloth rapidly
turning red, and just about at that same moment a
strong whiff of alcohol floated over us and made my
eyes water.
Eddie and I just stared for a while. Fr. P had righted
the cup and was going on with the Mass. We looked out
at the congregation and the old ladies still had their
heads bowed. If they'd heard anything, they must have
thought it was just another one of those Vatican II
innovations they'd heard about.
At Communion a minute or two later, Fr. P was swaying
more than usual and almost missed the second old lady's
mouth with the wafer before he punched it home. He ran
through the rest of the ceremony even faster than usual
and walked right back into the sacristy. Eddie looked
at me and raised his eyebrows; we'd always at least
trooped across the front of the church along the
Communion rail.
It seemed odd to do that without the priest, so we just
grabbed the cross from its holder and ducked into the
sacristy ourselves. Fr. P was gone by the time we got
there; we shucked our robes and walked over to school,
killing time outside for a few minutes before the
janitor opened up.
Comes lunchtime and we're out on the playground.
Eddie's not even noticing me anymore, of course,
because there are other kids now and he wouldn't want
to be associated with the class geek. I'm used to this
and I'm leaning against the rough bricks of the school,
hoping some younger kid will be dumb enough to draw the
attention of the big kids and keep them from picking on
me.
The key to not being noticed, of course, is not to look
at anyone yourself, so I'm ostriching with my eyes
pointed at my shoelaces and I don't know what's coming
until my ear is being twisted so hard I see stars.
Before I can react, I'm being pulled along and I see
Eddie looming ahead, his eyes getting bigger and
bigger. All the other kids drift away from him, but
he's frozen in place and then I see a scrawny hand in a
black sleeve reach past me and nab his ear, faster than
a cobra taking down a mongoose.
The cackle that follows I immediately recognize as
coming from Sister Mary Margaret, but I can't turn
around to check because now she's double-timing us both
back across the playground to where the other nuns are
sitting on lawn chairs and reading from their prayer
books. She stops us in front of Sister Juliet, our
eighth-grade homeroom teacher.
Sister Juliet is the only nun in the school who looks
to be under 50. It's hard to tell because her hair is
all covered up by the headpiece (or at least it's
supposed to be; with Sister Juliet there's usually a
wisp of blond strands peeking out somewhere), but I'd
guess now that she was in her early to mid-20s then.
One thing about the nun's habits, the tight bands
around their faces gave them automatic facelifts, so
you couldn't go by wrinkles. But Sister Juliet's skin
was still pink, not gray like most nuns, and she hadn't
developed the thin-lipped scowl that was standard issue
with the others.
Sister Juliet looks up, using one hand to shield her
eyes from the sun. Before she can say anything, Sister
Margaret is yapping. I'm thinking it's the candle smoke
on the ceiling and wondering whether the old nun
actually mapped out all the old charring, but no.
"These two infidels," she says, yanking our ears for
emphasis, "desecrated the holy altar of God this
morning, Sister Juliet. That's the kind of thing this
Vatican Council nonsense is leading us to. The blood of
the lamb spilled all over my clean altar cloth,
dripping onto the floor. Onto the floor!"
"Is that true, boys?" Sister Juliet is looking straight
into my eyes.
"Well, it wasn't our fault," I start to say. And Eddie
pipes up, "Fr. Pascalitis..." Whatever he was going to
say ends in a strangled "Eerrp" as Sister Margaret
gives him another tweak.
"Of course it's true," she shouts. "And they'll pay for
their sins, these heathens. They are going to clean the
floor on their hands and knees, getting every drop of
our Saviour's blood off that marble and then scrubbing
it to a polish. Even if it takes all day, they'll learn
the wages of sin!"
"Not until after school," Sister Juliet says, quietly.
She's looking past me now, I guess into Sister
Margaret's eyes. "And we must not keep them out too
late, of course. I think an hour would be enough, don't
you? I believe Mother Superior would agree."
Sister Margaret just snorted, but she released our ears
and we were able to go back into the school. A few
years later I would figure out that Sister Juliet and a
couple of the not-so-old older nuns, including the
principal, who was also the superior of the convent,
were allied against Sister Margaret and the rest of the
hard-liners. Back then, though, it was unthinkable that
nuns could disagree, so we figured it was just some
kind of good cop-bad cop routine.
And the bad cop -- Sister Margaret, that is -- got us
back at the end of the school day. Sister Juliet turned
us over and watched as the older nun walked us toward
the church, but as soon as the younger nun ducked back
into the school building Sister Margaret had us by the
lobes again. It was a cold, cold day, and even if any
boiler could have kept that barn of a church warm,
Sister Margaret was too stingy to fire it up in the
middle of the afternoon just for the likes of us.
Our fingers were quickly numbed and our knees ached
from the hard floor and I swear there wasn't more than
a drop or two of wine there in the first place -- let
alone wondering whether it really had been consecrated
before it spilled -- but Sister Margaret kept us at it
well past an hour before Sister Juliet came in the side
door of the church and said our parents were calling
the convent about us and wasn't it time we were getting
home? Sister Margaret had disappeared somewhere to wash
the altar cloth, so Eddie and I gathered up our
cleaning supplies and piled them in the sacristy and
took off before she could get back.
Since no other kids were around by the time we escaped,
Eddie was willing to walk home with me. Our
conversation was devoted to our feelings about Sister
Margaret, and "dried-up old penguin" was the nicest
thing either of us said. We were just about a block
from Eddie's house -- he lived kitty-corner and six
doors up from me -- when I got the idea that I thought
would not only produce the vengeance my heart craved
but also the produce the regular-kid status my brain
desired.
"Let's break the old bat's window," I said. I tended to
mumble whenever I said bad things about nuns, though --
ingrained survival instinct from school -- so at first
Eddie didn't know what I was talking about. "Let's
break the old bastard into what?" he said.
We sorted that out and he agreed that broken glass
would be a worthwhile punishment. (In the years since I
have wondered just how we thought that would work; was
Mother Superior going to make her glaze the replacement
window in herself? All I can say is, it seemed like a
good idea at the time.) Eddie, though, who had the
street smarts I lacked, suggested we wait a week or two
until someone else had gotten a chance to tick off
Sister Margaret, so we wouldn't be the obvious
suspects. We shook on the deal.
It was almost a month and getting close to the end of
the school year before we had our chance. As fate would
have it, Rondini was the one who rose up as a potential
scapegoat, when Sister Margaret caught him shuffling
through the papers on the lectern during a prayer
service in church for some underprivileged country or
another. It wasn't clear just what was so wrong with
what he did, but Ken didn't help himself when he told
Sister he had looked through the papers -- probably old
sermons or something -- because he was bored waiting
for his turn to read our prayer intentions. You could
hear the entire class suck in its breath at once when
he said that.
Exactly what Sister Margaret did to him I'll never
know, but Eddie and I met after school (in his
backyard, so no other kids could see us) and agreed
that now was the time.
That evening was a Boy Scout meeting, and Eddie and I
ducked out early during a firelight ceremony. (Well,
actually two flashlights covered in red plastic and
waved around a little; there was no way they'd let us
have a real fire in the old school hall.) We gathered
up some likely-looking stones from the gravel driveway
of the rectory garage and, practicing our best Scout
wilderness training, ran from bush to bush until we
were in sight of the convent wall.
It was only then that we realized a major flaw in our
plan. Being nuns, the good sisters kept their blinds
and drapes tightly shut, especially at night. We could
see lights pop on and off occasionally, but we had no
way of knowing whose room was whose.
Eddie was all for picking one window at random and
letting fly, but that was a step or two too far over
the line between being an ordinary kid and being a JD
for me. I knew it might cost me my only chance at
mediocrity, but I talked Eddie out of it.
Two days later, Eddie passed me a note in class and we
met in the boy's room. He had another idea. He wouldn't
tell me exactly what it was, but we were each to tell
our parents that after the next Scout meeting, in about
a month, we would be sleeping over at the other kid's
house.
That such a lame story worked for me isn't surprising;
my reputation as a good boy was strongest at home,
where even my sometimes resentful silences were
interpreted as respect. That Eddie's parents swallowed
the tale, not even bothering to check with my parents a
few doors away, surprised me. Eddie was a typical
eighth-grader -- which is to say, snotty, sneaky and
disobedient. I can only guess that his parents thought
no one would be dumb enough to tell a lie that could be
caught so easily. Or else they didn't care, which,
given the state of Eddie's clothes most days even when
he'd just left the house, seems entirely possible.
This time we didn't even go to the Scout meeting. Eddie
led me down an alley halfway between the church and our
houses. There was a big, overgrown mulberry bush about
50 feet up the alley, and he ducked under its leaves
while I stood guard outside. Two minutes later he was
beside me again, dressed in even grungier clothes than
usual, as he finished stuffing his Scout uniform into a
paper bag. Then it was my turn. I wasn't thrilled about
changing in the middle of an alley, and besides the
bush was right next to a smelly garbage bin that was
swarming with flies.
I knew I couldn't afford to skip out on my second
chance at descending to Eddie's level, so I held my
nose and changed -- which isn't easy to do at the same
time, believe me. My mom had given me a duffel bag for
my overnight stuff, and after I was done we snuck it
and Eddie's paper bag into a gap in the fence near the
bush's roots. Eddie grabbed some loose cardboard from a
garbage bin a few doors down and covered up our stuff.
Eddie led us past the church and down another block,
then up another alley. Being an ordinary kid was a lot
dirtier than I had thought; we jumped a fence and hid
in the weeds between two garages, and it smelled like
the narrow space served as the bathroom when the
neighborhood kids played ball.
Truth is, we used it ourselves while we were waiting --
for the Scout meeting to end, Eddie told me. About an
hour after dark, we finally heard some guys walking
past the alley and recognized Billy Kegelman's voice.
He always stayed to last 'cause his dad was the
scoutmaster, so we knew if he was leaving it was safe.
A few minutes later, we crept out of the alley and over
to the convent.
The building ran from the main street the church was on
almost all the way to the street behind, with wide
lawns in front and behind. The side facing the church
was well-lighted because the shrines of the Madonna and
St. Joe were there, and the spotlights bounced off the
white sculptures. On the other side, where we crept up,
the convent was separated from the school by a fenced-
in garden, about 50 feet across, with an asphalt drive
between that and the side entrances of the school.
This was no picket fence; it was a chain-link that went
up at least 12 feet. No barbed wire on top, though. I
think it was high because kids played pinner against
the school walls at lunch sometimes and they didn't
want balls bouncing in, but the story we kids told was
that a few of the nuns were crazy and the fence was
there to keep them from escaping.
There were some floodlights on the school side of the
driveway, and we stuck close to the fence to stay out
of their glow, me right behind Eddie. I still didn't
know what we were doing, but I was scared and looking
back and forth all the time expecting something
terrible. All of a sudden I look behind me and when I
look back Eddie's disappeared, and I almost pissed my
pants.
Then I hear a hiss and I'm afraid I did, but it's only
Eddie and he's on the other side of the fence. There
was a burrow about a foot deep at that point and I
don't know whether it was from a dog or Eddie had been
making preparations, although, given Eddie's IQ, I
wouldn't figure him for the planning type.
That impression of Eddie's abilities was increased a
few hours later. It must have been around 10 or 11;
most of the lights in the convent were out. We'd been
squatting on the ground and when Eddie started to move
I couldn't get my legs working right away. By the time
I caught up to him he was at the convent wall.
In a whispered conversation I found out that Eddie's
entire plan for the evening consisted of getting into
the convent through a basement window he'd noticed they
left half-open most nights. After that, he said, we'd
"wing it." I expressed some doubts as to the
effectiveness of that, but Eddie ignored me and slunk
along the wall until he'd found the open window.
Shaking my head, I followed, going in on a wing and a
prayer.
I guess if you're in a convent any old prayer will be
answered, because we managed to get into the place
without knocking anything over. It was pitch black and
musty, though, and I had a feeling that I didn't want
to know just how many spider webs we were going through
as we felt our way around. I was the one who found the
stairs, which at first I thought were shelves tipping
over. Luckily I was by then way too scared even to
squeak, and I just gasped waiting for the crash.
There was no particular logic in going up the stairs,
but then we were way past logic at that stage anyway.
If we were going to do anything to get back at Sister
Margaret, we sure weren't going to accomplish it in the
dark of the basement.
Having watched too many detective stories on TV, we
knew enough to keep to the sides of the steps to avoid
creaks. There was no light coming from under the door
at the top, so we eased it open and crawled out onto a
thin rug. Now we could make some things out in the dim
light slipping through the drawn blinds. We were in the
convent's kitchen, which was at the back. We slipped
off our shoes and slid across the linoleum.
At the far end was a set of stairs leading up. They
formed one wall of a long hallway that went all the way
to the front. As I was looking down the hall at a small
table-lamp beside the front door, I saw something move.
A little shiver ran over me, and it turned to a full
shake when I realized it was the hand of a nun sitting
by the front door, turning the page of a book.
Eddie had already started up the stairs, but I tugged
at his shirt and he came back to me. I pointed down the
hall and was about to whisper a suggestion that we get
out when we heard steps. We both looked up the stairs
but couldn't make out anything; by the time we looked
back toward the front we could hear Sister Margaret's
rasp. "I'll take over now, Sister Juliet," she said.
"Mustn't miss your beauty sleep." It didn't sound like
a nice thing to say. That was the first time I realized
nuns didn't always stick together.
Sister Juliet went upstairs. Sister Margaret, to our
dismay, didn't settle into the chair. She paced up and
down by the front door for a minute or two. Eddie and I
squeezed onto the stairs leading up, peeking around a
banister one in awhile. "Maybe this wasn't such a good
idea," he whispered right in my ear, and I wanted to
tell him that was a brilliant deduction.
But just then I looked around and saw Sister Margaret
heading our way and I pushed Eddie up the stairs just
as water pipes somewhere in the building started
pounding. I would have settled for a few seconds' grace
from a toilet flush, but this must have been a faucet
because the noise kept going long enough for us to get
all the way up the stairs.
Well, almost all the way up the stairs. The pipes
quieted with a final thump just as I was about to put
one foot onto the second-floor landing. In the quiet
that seemed to drape the whole building then, the creak
of that last step when I lifted my other foot sounded
like a siren. I froze -- not the smartest move, because
I was off-balance and my foot slapped back onto the
stair, loosing another high-pitched squeak. By now my
heart was pounding and I couldn't think. Eddie was in
the same state, but here's where our different natures
showed themselves.
Where my initial impulse in danger was to lie low,
Eddie was a man of action. In this case, that action
was to take off running down the hallway directly in
front of us. I just crouched down and peeked out from
behind my hands. I saw Eddie disappearing into the
darkness. You might think I was weighing my
alternatives, plotting out a foolproof escape. No way.
But when I saw Eddie start to turn a corner I moved
instinctively, slipping down a hallway to my left. A
door there was ajar; I stepped inside and leaned
against the wall.
Only then did it occur to me that I shouldn't have been
able to see Eddie at all. The mystery of his visibility
in the darkness was quickly solved when I heard steps
moving closer and Sister Margaret's unmistakable voice
beseeching a variety of saints to do very uncharitable
things to this vile Satanic spawn she had captured, and
on like that. She was almost screeching and I could
hear doors opening all around me and nuns whispering
back and forth. Looking back, it seems odd that they
bothered whispering given that Sister Margaret was
raising the devil at the top of her lungs, but I guess
it was force of habit.
At the time, I was just worried about being discovered.
I was safe for the moment; a quick glance assured me
the small bed in the room was empty, and with just a
chest of drawers and a straight-backed wooden chair as
the only other furniture, it wasn't like there was any
place someone could be hiding. Nor, I realized, was
there anyplace I could hide if anyone looked inside.
The bright angle of light from the hallway was enough
to tell that.
Outside, several nuns were shushing Sister Margaret and
jabbering at Eddie at the same time. Give him his due,
the kid was a trooper; he didn't squeal.
Before long all the talking resolved itself into a
decision to call Eddie's folks, and the pastor, and the
cops. Awful as all that sounded, I had a feeling Eddie
would rather take his lumps from any of those three
than face the wrath of Sister Margaret.
As the group moved away, I had time to look around the
room some more. It was kind of like how I'd figured it:
bare walls, no decoration but a crucifix on one wall.
Not even a mirror. There was a single bookshelf on the
wall above the bed, about half-full. I couldn't make
out the titles; the light through the curtains on the
one window was too dim and the light from the door
stopped short. But that window seemed to grow brighter
as I stared at it and realized it might be my only way
out. I was about to head for it when I heard a creak
right next to my ear and saw the room's door begin to
open.
I flattened against the wall and considered my options.
I didn't have any. The only thing going for me was that
I was on the hinge side of the door; if someone just
opened it and looked inside I'd be out of sight. I
thought I'd won that small grace when the door stopped
halfway.
"Sister Juliet!" Sister Margaret's voice sounded so
close I thought she was in the room with me. "How many
times must you be told you must wear your full habit at
all times when outside your room?"
"Yes, sister," my homeroom teacher said, and though her
voice was soft I realized she was even closer. "But I
was just washing up..."
"No excuses before God, sister! What if that despicable
devil who invaded our sanctuary had seen you!"
"What devil? What was that commotion I heard?"
Sister Margaret explained, at length and including some
involved words that I don't think get used much anymore
outside of exorcisms. She rounded out the story and was
working her way back to Sister Juliet's clothes while
sweat trickled down my neck. I was glancing around the
room, looking for any kind of hiding place, when I
noticed the bare light bulb in the middle of the
ceiling. I could just make out the fuzzy outline of the
faint shadow it cast. I decided that if the light went
on I would make an immediate dash for the window.
The chances of my getting there, getting the window
open and climbing out before anyone got to me were
slim, but maybe I would get lucky; maybe the window was
already open. Weren't those drapes moving ever so
slightly? I figured that with two giant steps and a
leap I could clear the sill, if the blinds didn't
tangle me up. OK, I'd have to yank them aside. And
then, well, wasn't there a small porch on the back of
the convent? How far a drop could it be?
Brave plans. But outside the door, the talking had
stopped and the door was beginning to open. I didn't
wait for the light to go on. My instincts kicked in.
I crawled around the dresser to my left and huddled in
the corner. What can I say? My instincts had kept me
safe so far.
If Sister Juliet had flipped on the light, I'm sure I
would have screamed. Maybe it's a nun thing, but she
left the light out. I went through a long line of
saints, promising each one months of prayer and good
works, if only I could somehow, some way, get out of
this. Meanwhile Sister Juliet closed the door behind
her and I swear she looked right at me. Only the time
it took her eyes to adjust from the hallway light to
the darkened room may have saved me.
I was concentrating on breathing as slowly and quietly
as I could, but my mind was telling me there was
something odd about the nun. I couldn't figure it out;
she looked, as far as I could see in the faint light,
the same as usual, same habit, same -- that was it. The
same habit, same veil, the works. What was that breach
of propriety Sister Margaret was yapping about? Just
then the light in the hallway snapped off, and in the
split second that it did my eyes went to the floor and
I saw the awful omission that could have, as Sister
Margaret said, put Eddie into an occasion of sin if he
had seen it: Sister Juliet was barefoot. I felt as if
she and I were allies now, against Sister Margaret.
Not that I considered for a second pointing that out,
or saying or doing anything else to draw attention to
myself. I stayed huddled in my corner.
Sister Juliet had moved to the far side of the room and
seemed to be doing something underneath her habit; all
I could see was some vague motion. Then some white
cloth appeared in her hand and she placed it on the
chair beside her.
In the years since I have done a bit of reading on the
subject, and if you cared I could explain in great
detail the name, placement and purpose of every piece
of cloth that appeared in the next few minutes. Suffice
it to say that nuns in those days were more heavily
armored than football players. In fact, with the way
the starch made the shoulders of the tunic stick out
and the way the rope cinched around their waists drew
in the cloth, nuns back then looked a lot tougher than
linemen. A lot has changed for both sides since then.
I had a vague inkling that what I was seeing was much
more like a real occasion of sin than Eddie's potential
sighting of naked toes. A certain feeling in my groin
added to my certainty. Maybe for some boys the thought
of a naked nun is a turn-on, but up until then I had
only thought of wool and beads as a uniform and nuns
as, well, nuns. Now I realized all that cloth was just
clothing and nuns were real people -- real women -- and
they were naked underneath. Even if I got out of this
alive, I knew, the last few days of class would never
be the same.
Sister Juliet walked over to the bed now, just a few
feet from me. But she didn't look in my direction; she
just picked up a pile of white cloth that unfolded into
what looked like a long nightgown as she shook it
loose. She still looked the same on the outside, with
the habit and veil, but I knew there was actual honest-
to-goodness skin underneath.
Only it didn't look like I was going to see anyway,
because Sister slipped the nightgown on over her habit.
This was getting just plain weird. Since that time,
I've read that nuns were taught these overly prim
dressing methods as part of their training. In fact,
Sister Juliet's routine was a bit more liberal than
some I've read about. I gather the idea was that even
the sight of her own body was too tempting for a nun to
see, which makes you wonder just how they went to the
bathroom. Well, don't. It's every bit as silly as you'd
think.
Silly is also the word that came to mind that night as
Sister Juliet seemed to struggle with her habit under
the nightgown. I'm not sure, but she might even have
sworn under her breath once or twice when her arm got
tangled up. Finally, with a sigh, she lifted the gown
off and tossed it onto the chair. Arms free again, she
undid some knots and began to lift the bulky black
habit over her head.
It was not lost on me as the hem of the habit rose
higher that I was seeing a nun's legs, and that soon I
could be seeing a lot more. But my survival instinct
finally turned from hide to hie, and I hied right over
the bed heading for the window.
Did I mention that puberty had left me a bit, well,
ungainly? Do you know what would happen if an ungainly
13-year-old tried to leap over a small bed in one
bound? In the dark? With a now large and definitely
rigid penis to distract him?
It wasn't pretty.
The fall came in slow motion, or at least slow enough
for me to wrap my arms around my head before I tumbled
onto the corner of the bed and then rolled onto the
floor.
Sister Juliet got a bit tangled up in her habit, but
she was loose by the time I got back on my feet. She
looked right at me, but neither of us had a chance to
speak before there was a knock on the door. It was
Sister Margaret, demanding to know what was going on. I
stood stock still. Sister Juliet looked at me and
slowly turned to the door. "Nothing, Sister Margaret,"
she whispered. "I just stumbled."
With a crack about stumbling from the path, Sister
Margaret went away, grumbling. Sister Juliet put a
finger to her lips and held it there for a minute.
"She's gone now," the young nun said. "You're safe, for
now."
Lives there a boy who could carry on an intelligent
conversation with a naked nun? And a very beautiful
naked nun, at that. Sister Juliet's skin seemed almost
to glow, it was so pale. The light from the window,
filtered by the drapes and blinds, caressed her like
moon-glow. She stood about 5-4, I'd guess, several
inches shorter than me, but her legs seemed longer than
mine, or maybe it was the way the light hit her hip.
She was slim, which I would've guessed, although with
the sack habits you could never be sure. Turned toward
me, what lay between her legs was in shadow, but the
light caught the side of one breast, one perfect, round
breast. She wore nothing but her veil, black cloth that
covered her hair and hung down just between her
shoulder blades; the starched white piece that ran
across her forehead let some hair escape, as usual.
Maybe it was because nuns aren't used to being nude,
but Sister Juliet didn't try to cover herself at all.
Her hands were on her hips, the same way she faced us
in class on those afternoon when we'd been a little
rowdy and needed settling down.
I was fully clothed, except for my shoes, which I still
clung to, but I felt the urge to cover myself. It could
have been my boner or it could have been a reaction to
Sister's nudity; I don't know.
Whatever, Sister Juliet didn't seem to notice. When I
didn't respond to her question, she went on whispering,
telling me that Sister Margaret was on the alert so I
probably couldn't get out the back way. Did I have a
suggestion? My classroom self kicked in and I raised my
hand; she smiled and nodded for me to speak.
The window, I hissed. The drop, she warned. The porch,
I explained.
She pulled back the drapes and carefully raised the
blinds. I was standing next to her now, and when her
bare arm brushed mine I thought I'd swoon. She didn't
seem to notice, but went right on raising the blinds
and then slipped the latches on the window. It occurred
to me that her room was almost as well secured as her
body had been by all those layers. I was just glad
summer hadn't arrived yet and the screens weren't up.
We had to pull together to get the window to budge, and
then we both stopped at the same second when it broke
free and started to fly up. It was lucky we did, for
that's just when the dogs barked.
I slipped to the left of the window; Sister jumped to
the right. We both slipped our heads around the sill
and looked down.
The pastor kept two Dobermans, animals so lean you
could see every muscle rippling beneath the skin. They
were what we used to scare the first-graders with: If
you don't say everything right in Confession, Father'll
know and he'll throw you to the dogs. Now these two
land sharks were right below us. We could hear the
pastor, old Father Joe, talking to someone -- probably
Sister Margaret, who was rapidly becoming my personal
avenging angel. "I'll keep the dogs out for at least a
few hours, Sister," he said. "The boys could use a
little exercise. Don't you worry, no one's going to try
to get into the convent with them around."
Or try to get out, either, I decided.
Sister must have agreed, because she motioned to me and
we silently slid the window closed; she ran down the
blinds and pulled the drapes back into place.
We sat down on the edge of her bed. My mind was into
complete overload: bed, nun, nude. On the other hand:
dogs, Sister Margaret, my parents. Should I have been
paying more attention to the class about the Last
Rites? Could there possibly be a more extreme unction,
whatever an unction was, than the situation I was in?
It was a reasonably warm night, but I was now shivering
full-bore and my teeth were even chattering. Sister put
her arm around me and hugged me to her, whispering for
me to calm down. Calm down? Sister Juliet's left breast
was now smack dab against the side of my right arm. I
looked down and I could see both breasts, and even --
no, that couldn't be -- yes, a dark triangle in her lap
that I recognized from the Playboy I'd seen once over
the shoulder of one of the cooler kids before the gang
had elbowed me out of the way.
Sex education being what it was back then, I had come
to the conclusion that the fur must be what the guys
called a pussy. Seemed logical at the time. I had a
notion that there must be something else to it, because
they talked about "putting it inside her," and the
hairy patch had seemed too short to go inside of, but
then the guys weren't very strong on grammar so who
knew? There were a lot of mysteries to their language.
To this day I don't know exactly what they meant when
they said they had "made out," even though I'm betting
I've done it myself a few times.
The point is, I could now see as much of Sister Juliet
as I had ever seen of any woman, and that had been just
on paper. This was flesh. Warm flesh, I noted, as her
breast rode against my arm. Soft, warm flesh.
Somewhere along the line as we had tried the window my
cock had deflated -- I'd guess it was when the dogs
showed up -- but now it was rising again, bending
painfully against my briefs and jeans. I swear the
original Levi must have been a eunuch; those things
always seem to get smaller the bigger you get, and that
zipper is surely the nastiest, sharpest, roughest thing
anyone but a masochist would ever put near his cock.
In short, I had stopped shivering but was now cringing
in pain as Sister quietly went over the situation like
it was a classroom lesson. The window was out; the dogs
were a cinch for at least a couple of hours, and we
both knew there was no way a klutz like me could outrun
them even if I had a full block lead. The doors were
out; if Sister Margaret didn't get me I'd still have
the dogs. I suggested the basement window and hiding in
the garden, figuring there was no point in keeping our
entry a secret now.
Sister Juliet briefly considered the possibility of
staging a diversion that would keep Sister Margaret
occupied while I slipped away. But we both agreed that
there was no real cover in the garden, and if the dogs
caught a whiff of me I'd be a goner. My only chance,
Sister Juliet said, was to wait until around 5 a.m. By
then Fr. Joe would surely have called it quits, and
that's when Sister Margaret was due to be relieved by
old Sister Ardethine. She was half-blind and totally
deaf, so I should have no problem sneaking out the back
way when she was guarding the front. It would still be
dark enough for me to get away; I assured Sister I
could stay out of trouble until it was a reasonable
hour for me to go back home.
That meant a wait of just about six hours, but I wasn't
going to quibble at the delay. I was so relieved to
have a solution that didn't involve my being ripped
into pieces by slavering Dobermans that I slipped my
hand around Sister's back and gave her a big hug.
A real big hug. Before I knew what I was doing, my arms
were wrapped around Sister Juliet's naked torso, her
breasts crushed against my chest. I felt the starchy
cloth of her headpiece against my cheek. It was a
wonderful moment.
Which, naturally, I ruined by becoming overbalanced and
tipping us both over onto our backs. We rolled toward
each other and Sister Juliet's smooth face was just an
inch or so from mine as I stared directly into her
eyes. I could feel her breath.
I could also feel a pain in my right arm, trapped at an
odd angle beneath her. I said something suave, like
"Ow," and she lifted herself up slightly so I could
pull free. On the way out my hand slid along her
breast. My thumb made contact with her nipple, which
was now stiff. I would like to say that my strong
religious upbringing caused me to remove my hand at
once and say a few Acts of Contrition, but actually I -
- well, I squeezed. It was my first breast, and I
wasn't going to let it go so easily.
What was going through Sister's head then I cannot
know, but I suspect that's when she finally realized
she was naked in bed with an eighth grade boy. I
further suspect that they never covered this
eventuality in nun school, because she didn't do a
thing. Her eyes opened wide and she moaned a little,
which I'm not vain enough to think was a tribute to my
skillful manipulation of her tit, but she didn't pull
away.
My hormones decided that the absence of a "no" was as
good as a "yes," and my left hand swung over and placed
itself gently on Sister Juliet's other breast. I now
had two handfuls of firm but yielding nun flesh and if
I thought my cock was in agony before, that was nothing
compared with the pain as the engorged tool strained
against my constricting jeans. No pain, no gain, I
thought, as I continued to massage Sister's breasts,
rubbing my thumbs over the nipples. "We shouldn't," she
whispered, but she still wasn't moving, and she was
looking me right in the eye.
Her pale lips were parted slightly. In the dim light
her face looked like one of the angels in the Madonna
shrine, all smooth graceful curves. I leaned forward
and kissed her lightly.
There are patron saints for all sorts of things, but
I'm pretty sure there is no saint whose job is to watch
over oversexed teenagers putting the moves on nuns. If
that's true, I don't know how to explain my actions
that night, because I went into Sister Juliet's room a
social misfit who had no sexual experience and little
knowledge. But somehow I managed to avoid doing
anything really stupid that would have broken the
moment. Maybe it was because I was so scared; maybe
some remnant of the respect I'd been trained to have
for nuns was translating my raging hormones into gentle
caresses. Or maybe even a nun can get hot enough to
ignore her lover's fumbling.
Whatever the reason, there was no interruption and my
light kiss turned into another and another and got
longer and longer. My hands moved up and down Sister
Juliet's silken body, sliding around the delicious
curves of her legs and over the incredibly lush mounds
of her ass. About the time we discovered tongue-
kissing, Sister slid one long, lithe leg over mine and
I silently shot a load into my briefs.
I had done the deed before, of course, mostly to erotic
fantasies about one or another of the Gabor sisters. So
sue me; I like accents. The point is, I knew that what
I had was called an orgasm -- it's amazing what you can
learn from a collegiate dictionary -- but I wasn't
entirely sure whether coming in my jeans met the strict
definition of "having sex." I knew that doing it by
yourself didn't, but after all, there was a woman in
the room.
A rather aroused woman by that point, too. Sister
Juliet had slipped her hands underneath my t-shirt and
was rubbing them up and down my hairless chest as her
leg wrapped itself around my waist. In between two of
our hot kisses, she grabbed my cotton shirt and pulled
it over my head, flinging it aside. Later on I found it
draped over the crucifix. That might be irony, even
though it was a wooden cross.
Sister's tits pressed right into my skin then, and my
arms held her to me tightly. Our kisses were broken now
only when we had to take a breath, or when we each went
in search of tender flesh, kissing and licking each
other's necks, shoulders, cheeks. Sister slid her
tongue into my ear and I almost screamed; I returned
the favor and her gentle kisses on my shoulder turned
into an out-and-out bite.
We were driving each other crazy, but I still had my
pants on and my hands hadn't been anywhere near
Sister's G spot, or any other part of her erotic
alphabet except her tits and her ass. It was a case of
the blind leading the blind, or at least the blind
doing the blind. We'd run over first base and second
and rounded third, but we couldn't seem to find home
plate.
Sister got us started in the right direction when her
hand stroked over my hip and landed, by accident I'm
sure, on top of my still rigid member. I groaned,
softly, or she might have just kept going. Instead, she
began rubbing up and down and I had to break our kiss
as my head fell back and my breath came in short, sharp
gasps. I fumbled at my belt and yanked it loose while
Sister kept up her massage. I was so horny that I tried
to pull my jeans off without even unzipping them first.
Sister helped, then, and I kicked my pants off as her
soft hands molded themselves to my cock, still inside
my soaked briefs.
We were still dancing on the base-paths, though. I had
bent my head down to take one of Sister Juliet's tits
into my mouth and I was suckling it while one hand
twiddled the other nipple; she was giving me a hand job
through my underwear and twisting her legs madly, but
it didn't get serious until, as I was caressing her
flat stomach, my hand reached the edge of her fur patch
and kept going and suddenly one of my fingers slid
home.
I wasn't the smartest kid in the class for nothing. I
realized in a flash just what the guys did when they
"put it in," and I had no doubt that what they put in
was no finger.
Sister got the idea, too, because she immediately
pulled my briefs off. I'm no super stud, and my cock is
nothing more than average size and thickness, but I
guess to a nun even a pencil dick would have been a big
deal. Anyway, Sister gasped when my tool popped free,
which alone gave me enough self-confidence to get all
the way through four years of high school gym classes.
I slipped off my socks, too -- why, I don't know -- but
Sister still had her veil on and I've got to admit, on
her at that moment it was incredibly sexy.
Sister had rolled completely over onto her back and
spread her legs wide. I crawled between them, my cock
hanging down, until I felt the tip make contact with
her wetness. I tried several quick lunges then, but
missed the mark and rode up onto her belly. This sex
thing was not as obvious as it seemed. Sister was
wriggling underneath me, which didn't make my aim any
easier. I even tried grabbing hold of my tool and
poking away, but the dark and my eagerness plus my
complete and utter inexperience produced nothing but
some frustrating, albeit still exciting, misfires.
Finally Sister reached down herself and guided me in,
holding my cock steady at her entrance while she rubbed
up and down against it. I wasn't sure if I was going in
or just wishing I was until the ridge of the tip popped
up into her and there was no longer any room for doubt.
Nor much room for my cock, either. Sister was extremely
tight, though at the time I had no grounds for
comparison. Her sugar walls gripped me like a vise, and
I was afraid to push in any further for fear I'd hurt
something.
Sister Juliet stood that only so long before she began
humping up at me, urging me deeper. Her breath came in
hot puffs and her hands gripped my ass tightly until I
got with the program and began to stroke. A couple of
inches in or so, I ran into a definite roadblock, and
this time even Sister didn't seem eager to ram through.
We stopped the motion there, with my cock half-buried
in her, and turned our attention back to kissing and
groping. Sweat was already pooling on her chest and her
breasts were salty when I licked them each in turn.
At last we could take no more. I began to stroke again,
slowly, at the same instant as Sister's ass started to
squirm under me. In three strokes I was at the
obstruction again; three more and I was through, with a
slight whimper from Sister. She clutched me for a
minute, her legs wrapped so tightly around me that I
couldn't move, her fingers digging into my sweaty back.
Gradually, she relaxed, and we moved in synch, one
thrust answered with another. My cock plunged deeper
and deeper into her hot, wet hole until I bottomed out,
my sparse pubic hairs grinding against her more
luxuriant patch.
We'd probably been wrestling on the bed for a half-hour
by then, but we hadn't said more than a dozen words.
Now Sister pulled my head down to her, our bodies
sliding easily together. "Oh, sweet Jesus," she sighed
in my ear. "Sweet mother, yes, child, just like that.
Oh, God!"
She was, I don't know, 20-something, and I was just 13,
but we were equally naive and maybe that's why we fit
so well. My cock slid into her tunnel with perfect
timing, and she seemed to know just when to hump back
to squeeze out an extra iota of ecstasy. But it wasn't
all by instinct on my part; she helped, coaching me:
slower, faster, harder; warning me to relax and just
hold her now and then. Our passion stretched out
endlessly and I seemed to feel every nerve ending on my
tool tingling. We kissed again, hungrily, and it was
like the kisses were now more important than breathing.
"Harder, now, harder!" Sister whispered in my ear, and
I slammed into her. "More, more!" she gasped, and I
lifted almost all the way out and drove it home, again
and again. The bed began to shake under us, but almost
before it began Sister Juliet's legs clamped around me,
and a few seconds later her fingers clawed into my
back. I heard her catch her breath, and then her body
went rigid. For a minute or more I couldn't move,
wrapped inside her, as she convulsed over and over,
each wave tumbling into the next.
I rode her like a body surfer, hanging on while her
legs spread wide and she bucked and heaved. "Blessed
Virgin, yes!" she sighed at last as she came to rest
and brought her knees up again, sheltering me.
I let her rest a few minutes, but my cock was still
hard and I needed some release. Slowly, gently, I began
to stroke again. Her tunnel was soaked, and friction
was hard to find, so I jiggled from side to side,
twisting in. Sister purred and so I kept it up, a
steady rhythm that she passively accepted, drilling her
sopping wet hole.
Sweat was streaming into my eyes and my hair was
plastered to my forehead; I could feel the water pour
off me when Sister Juliet slid her hands down to my ass
and pushed me deeper in. My knees gave out and I was
supporting myself only on my arms, but ecstasy overcame
exhaustion. In and out, like a metronome, until at last
I felt something building.
In all my solo sessions, even when I had creamed while
Sister and I were petting, I had never had a feeling
like that. Those other times it had come on quickly and
was over in a second. Now it built and built, and twice
I felt myself dangling on the edge for so
excruciatingly long that I had to stop; the feeling was
too intense.
At last, the feeling crested and I knew this was it.
"Sister, Sister, Sister," I hissed over and over as my
strokes grew slower and deeper until the explosion
came, and so did I. The hot jism felt like fire and the
pumping kept going and going, and when it was over,
instead of disappearing at once, my hard-on slowly
ebbed. Finally it was done, and all of a sudden I could
feel the ache in my arms and I rolled onto my side.
Sister rolled over to face me. When I put out my hand
to her, I could feel the sheets soaking wet beneath
her.
"Is that all?" Sister Juliet asked. My mouth fell open.
All? I'd suddenly gone from being the only boy in
eighth grade who didn't know what a nookie was to being
the only one -- well, I was pretty sure, anyway --
who'd ever had sex with an older woman. And a nun. My
mind was already blown six ways to Sunday and this
woman wanted more?
Yeah, she did. "It's only 1:15," she said with a smile
that melted me. The one thing about Sister Juliet that
really kept us guys from stepping over that line from
rowdy to downright misbehaving was that smile. Tiny
dimples formed and her eyes glistened and it made you
feel warm all over. Once, in the second week of school
that year, a few guys had gotten into a spitball fight.
It was the usual thing when we ran into a nun new to
the school, testing out the limits, and Sister Juliet
had never yelled at us or hit anyone or done any of the
other things the real tyrant nuns did, so these guys
must have figured they had free rein.
Sister stopped the fight by walking right into the
middle of it. She didn't say a word, then or ever,
about what those guys had done. But for the next two
weeks we didn't see that smile again in class. That was
when we -- or at least I -- realized what we were
missing. It was the smile that set Sister Juliet apart
from the other nuns, even Mother Superior, who was no
tyrant herself. But Mother Superior's smile was just a
smile, just a pat on the head. Sister Juliet's smile
was like the sun after a rainy morning, and you
expected rainbows to appear on the walls and the sweet
smell of flowers opening.
Now that smile was directed full force at me. How I
could see it all so clearly in the still darkened room
I'll never know. I guess my memory filled in the
details. But with that smile Sister had already
convinced me.
Unfortunately, the smile could lift my spirits but it
couldn't lift my cock. She massaged it, rubbed her leg
against it, to no effect.
Sister's smile was beginning to fade. I tried to think
sexy thoughts, but I had to give it up. What could be
sexier than the body of Sister Juliet wrapped around
mine? If that reality wouldn't work, no fantasy could.
The only thing I could think of was to give Sister at
least a little satisfaction. This time when my fingers
found her cleft, they were there to stay. It was hot
and slippery, even a little bit sticky, and I didn't
know enough about anatomy to know what I was looking
for, but I stuck my middle finger inside and Sister
fell back against the sheets again.
With my left hand busy down below, my right reached out
to her breast. Once again I felt its soft weight, and
her nipple grew rigid under my touch. All the while I
was driving my finger into her hole, and quiet,
guttural moans as her head rolled back and forth told
me that was the right thing. When my thumb discovered a
hard bump at the entrance to her valley, her legs
closed around my arm so tight they cut off the
circulation for a second. She kept clenching and
unclenching them as I worked away. "So good, so good,"
she said, and it sounded like when she was rewarding me
for a good answer in class.
I was concentrating on my manipulations so much that I
missed it the first time Sister said it: "Look who's
back," she said again, and I looked. Like a dark
flagpole, my cock stood tall again against the shadows.
"Hallelujah," Sister Juliet whispered. I tried to rise
onto her again, but when my arm buckled under me she
rolled me onto my back and took control.
She rose onto her knees and straddled me. Between the
twin mounds of her breasts I could see her smiling at
me again, the white band of her veil like a halo around
her. As gentle as a saint, she moved forward until my
cock was rubbing against her pubic patch. She began to
move against me, smearing my balls with the ooze from
her hole. Her tits bounced enticingly and I reached up
and took hold of them. In a moment Sister lifted her
body up and I felt the warmth of her tunnel at the tip
of my cock. She came down slowly, agonizingly slowly,
and she fit me like a hand in a glove. I nearly swooned
from the now-familiar sensation as she took me all the
way in.
She held me like that as my hands played with her
globes. Then she bent down and kissed me full and hard,
our lips pressing together while our tongues darted
back and forth. Her nipples tapped on my chest, and I
wanted to push into her but her ass had me pinioned.
I wrapped my hands around the back of her headpiece,
pulling her to me, but this was her time. All too soon
for me she rose up again.
Then, in a move that took my breath away, she rose
excruciatingly slowly on my pole. I could feel the
folds of her tunnel opening up and sliding along my
tool, the coolness of the air as each centimeter of
cock emerged from the opening in Sister Juliet. At the
very top of her rise, with just the head of my cock
inside her, Sister suddenly drove down, fast and hard.
If it was possible for me to bury even deeper into her
than before, I did it then. And over and over again, as
she slammed herself against me. The bed shook, but
nun's beds had no springs so there were no squeaks to
give us away.
The next day, I discovered that I'd bitten my lip hard
enough to leave two deep indentations and a little raw
flesh. I think it was then that I did it, with Sister
plunging onto me so hard I thought the bed would
collapse beneath us. My hands had worked their way down
to the intoxicating curves of her hips, and I could
feel her muscles tensing and letting go as she drove up
and down.
Again, and again, and again, and now it was sweet agony
as every move turned the ridge of my cock's head into a
flaming ring. My eyes were squeezed almost shut and my
hands fell back onto the bed. I couldn't return
Sister's thrusts; I could barely breath. This time,
when she came, her walls contracted around my tool, so
tight I thought I could never get loose. Tight and
tighter, her muscles massaged my painfully rigid cock.
Each second I was sure I could take it no longer. My
fingers dug into the sheet, pulling it loose as I
wadded it into my fists. I had to fight to draw a
breath. My toes curled; the tendons in my legs
stretched to the maximum. And then it was over. I was
jelly, unable to move a muscle. It felt as if the skin
on my face was sagging into puddles.
And then again, Sister Juliet's tunnel closed on my
cock, just for a few seconds of indescribable
sensations. Blissful peace again, and then a surge. Her
orgasm ebbed away slowly, and I think it was a full 10
minutes before the last gentle throbbing ended.
Sister's head hung down for a few seconds, before she
came down, almost falling, on top of me. She had taken
me in the middle of her small bed;
I had to move aside to give her room to roll onto the
sheets. She lay on her side briefly, but even that was
too much, and I slid right to the end of the bed,
rising onto my side as she slumped face down, arms
curling around the one small pillow.
I was, somehow, still erect, and the perfect globes of
Sister Juliet's naked ass were too tempting. I rolled
on top of her, my cock resting in the valley between
those beautiful mounds. Stroking up and down, I kissed
her slick back gently. She began to stir when I reached
the nape of her neck, and a sigh escaped when my tongue
found her ear.
If I were given to boasting, I'd say I discovered anal
sex then. Truth is the thought of putting my tool there
would never have occurred to me, and if anyone had
mentioned it I'm sure I would have been repulsed. (OK,
the full truth is I've never done it to this day.
Always had enough to keep myself occupied without it, I
guess.)
What did happen is that the combination of sweat and
cum had Sister's ass so slippery that on one stroke my
cock went down instead of forward, and we accidentally
discovered doggie style.
At first my cock just rode over the entrance to her
tunnel, but Sister Juliet began to shimmy against it
and from somewhere got the strength to rise onto her
knees, waving that perfect butt up at me. It was easier
to aim from that angle, and my pole slipped into her in
one push. She was so lubricated by then, though, that I
kept sliding out.
I leaned forward and grabbed on to her breasts from
behind, pushing my pole as deep into her as I could and
restraining my movements to short strokes. That worked
great, and we got back into a rhythm, twitching
together.
In this new position, I found a different kind of
friction, too, helped along when Sister put one hand
onto my cock, stroking it as it left her body. When she
ran her fingertips along the bottom of it I almost
shot, but I grimaced and held back, sliding back into
her for a few moments to let the feeling pass.
That gave me some extra time, but not much. A few short
strokes later and I could feel the feeling again. I
picked up the pace, pounding my cock into Sister
Juliet. Long years in the Church must have given us
strong knees, because neither one of us weakened
despite what had become hours of passion. Sister's head
was burrowed into her thin pillow, and her veil had
become matted to her back. There wasn't a part of her,
or me, that wasn't soaking wet and hot as flame. The
sweat was running so hard I had to snort to clear my
nose, and my knees were threatening to slip on the
sheets, but I held on and continued to blast away.
This time my orgasm was no explosion. As I reached the
crest of sensations, my cock suddenly seemed to grow
numb. I pushed in desperately and got a shadow of the
old feeling, as if I were shooting blanks. My cock
throbbed several times, I shook all over and then my
muscles went weak again. It was over.
We huddled then like spoons, Sister's ass pillowing my
shrunken cock. The bed was a wet, cold mess, but we
were beyond caring. I wrapped my right arm around her
waist, my forefinger slipping into her navel. We moved
only to let her tug her veil free from underneath my
head, and then we both drifted off to sleep.
It was still dark when I awoke, but I could smell
something. Well, yeah, that, but something else, bitter
and -- coffee! I was freaked; how was I going to get
out now if all the nuns were downstairs for breakfast?
Sister Juliet, who woke up and rubbed her eyes after I
shook her, didn't seem as upset. She was sure it was
only the pot of java Sister Margaret slipped on at the
end of her shift. Like a lot of old people, the
caffeine seemed more of a sleeping aid than a jolt to
her, Sister said. But I was still worried, so Sister
checked her watch, buried under the pile of clothes on
her chair. It was 4:30.
I got out of bed and gathered up my clothes. Sister
Juliet, after wadding the sheet up and tossing it
aside, got back on the bed. She kept reaching out after
me and caressing my thighs or butt as I moved around. I
was mostly concerned about getting out of there, but I
guess she suspected this would be her last chance at
anything and she didn't want to let it go so soon.
I've got to admit, my spirit was willing, too. Sister
Juliet's body glistened in the faint light like a
garden of earthly delights, and the memory of being
inside the nun's hot box was heavenly. But my flesh was
way, way too weak -- at least the crucial piece of
flesh, which hung down like a dead snake.
My Eve grabbed the snake and tried rubbing it against
the apples of her breasts, but it was nothing doing.
She pouted as she looked down at it. I was
disappointed, too, but time was passing too quickly and
I still had to get dressed.
Sister Juliet wouldn't let go, though, and insisted she
had to kiss it goodbye.
And so we discovered oral sex. I'd heard guys talking
about a "blow job," and I'd even used the term myself,
in a metaphorical sense, but I had only a guess at what
it really meant. That it was more of a suck job than a
blow became pretty darn obvious, though, when my cock
began to respond to Sister's gentle kisses and she took
it into her mouth.
Since that time I've never had a woman volunteer to do
it, and the few who have done it at my urging didn't
appear to get very excited at the prospect. But Sister
Juliet was almost worshiping my tool, inhaling it to
the root even as it grew and stiffened. Only when I was
at my limit was she unable to take it all in.
Of all the things I've seen in my life, the one vision
that I hope will stay with me to my dying day is what I
saw looking down at Sister Juliet stretched out on the
bed, one arm propping herself up while the other held
my rigid member and guided it in and out of her soft
lips. The way her cheek bulged as she took me in, and
hollowed as she slowly slid me out. The times she
looked up at me with doe eyes, gazing at me while my
cock continued to slip in and out. Her legs writhing on
the mattress, twisting around and over each other. The
sparse hairs of my patch tickling her nose on the
downstrokes. Incredible.
With my cock now fully erect, I grabbed onto Sister's
veil with both hands and began to pull her face toward
me. I was too eager and she started to gag, and her
headpiece was pulled askew. When I let up, she popped
my penis out of her mouth and took a few deep breaths.
I thought it was over.
Instead, she reached back and undid the veil, shaking
it free. Her blond hair was very short, almost as short
as mine, and she looked boyish. But her body was no
boy's, just every boy's dream. She rose off the bed and
held me to her and we kissed again, hard and hungrily,
as if it was the last time either one of us would ever
do it again. I pressed my hands along the ridge of her
back, into the dip at the bottom, clenching her firm
butt as my cock pulsed against her belly. Her hands
entwined themselves in my hair and pulled me deeper and
deeper into the kiss. Time lost its meaning and the
only thought in my head was of Sister Juliet and her
sweet, sweet body.
We did it that last time on the floor, on a bare cotton
throw rug, with the one pillow from the bed folded
double and bunched under Sister's ass. I entered her
slowly again, and her flower opened up to me a petal at
a time. When I was all the way in and her velvety
tunnel closed around the base of my cock, I bent down
to adore her breasts. I took each into my mouth again
and again, licking the sides tantalizingly before
reaching the center of passion at the tip. My tongue
flicked against the nipple while my fingers memorized
the curves and I soon had Sister moaning quietly.
Now it was time again, and I began the motion, my hips
bucking up and down as Sister returned the favor. It
was all slow motion now, savoring every centimeter,
till we were down to each individual nerve cell, it
seemed, waiting for each one to fire out its message
before pushing on to the next. "Glory, glory, glory,"
Sister Juliet sighed, and I answered, "Amen."
At one point I lifted my torso up and swung her legs to
my shoulders, narrowing her opening and creating new
levels of ecstasy for us. My hands fluttered up and
down the supple muscles of her thighs as I kept up the
steady tattoo of my cock inside her.
I dove between her feet again, and her legs locked
around me as our passion continued. I was moving my
cock from side to side now, scraping against her walls,
but even that wasn't enough for her. Sister Juliet slid
her own hand between us and I could feel her
frantically fiddling with herself even as I drove in
and out.
At some point, without speaking, we rolled over, still
joined. Sister was on top now, and I alternated between
manhandling her bouncing tits and stroking at her love
button as she rode me as hard as before. I could feel
the juices pouring down my cock and all over my groin,
but slick as she was Sister's passion was driving her
fast enough to keep my cock entertained.
Once again I let my hands fall back and just enjoyed it
all, the delicious pain. Sister was pounding my prick
so hard I was afraid that she'd miss the mark on a
downstroke and bend it in two before I could do a
thing, but the danger just made it more exciting.
When she began to wear out, we shifted positions again.
This time I sat on the floor with my back against the
bed; Sister Juliet squatted over me and we ended our
lovemaking as we had begun in, our lips pressed
together, our tongues darting back and forth, lost in
each other.
Our thrusts slowed, bit by bit, until she was stopping
on each upstroke with just the tip of the tip of my
penis inside her, then sliding down, allowing me to
feel her opening around me, slowly, slowly, swallowing
me into her warmth, enrobing me in hot passion. Up,
again, such sweet sorrow, and down. It was more than
either one of us could take.
I felt it again, that cliff's-edge feeling, and I
warned her but she'd already sensed it somehow, and she
was nearing her own peak, and we rushed up to it and
slowed just at the edge, one last thrust, deep, deep
inside, our bodies closer than ever, one flesh, one
desire, and then the exultation, a hot river surging
through me and into her body, gushing into her, as she
shivered and shook, her muscles clenching and letting
go, milking me dry. We let the moment linger, our real
orgasms fading into just the memories so imperceptibly
I couldn't tell when they really ended.
I was spent, utterly spent, not tired or aching, just
completely lifeless, my cock withering within Sister
Juliet. I never wanted to leave her.
But far too soon -- any shift would have been too soon,
but this was wrenching -- we moved from the sublime to
the ridiculous, for we heard voices outside in the
hall. I jumped up and Sister groped for her watch:
5:10. These were the early birds; in just five minutes
every nun in the convent was to be up and about,
preparing for the day. I scrambled into my clothes;
Sister helped. She assured me she would be all right on
her own, when I offered to help her with her habit. One
sock dangling from a pocket and my shirt only half
tucked-in, I got to the door and opened it a crack to
peek outside. It looked clear. Carefully I began to
edge it open more. From nowhere a shadow loomed and a
knuckle rapped on the door. "Hurry, Sister Juliet," a
voice whispered. "It's our day to cook, you know!"
Behind me, Sister Juliet murmured something like an
acknowledgement, but the shadow didn't go away. I
looked back; Sister was wrapping bits of cloth all
round her; the linen was sticking to her sweaty body.
Glancing up and seeing the problem, she came to the
door. "I'll be along in a minute, Sister Evangeline,"
she said, and the shadow moved away.
Sister Juliet took me in her arms then, and we shared
one last, searing soul kiss, a kiss we broke and
resumed twice before the sounds of plumbing reminded us
to hurry. Sister checked the hall this time; the coast
was clear. I was out and down the stairs before I knew
it, my heart thumping. A noise from above as I reached
the bottom spooked me, and I didn't even stop to check
if anyone was looking before I grabbed the back door,
swung it open and ran off into the edge of dawn.
Eddie never came back to school. Rumors said he'd done
something awful to the nuns, but no one was sure what
or when. I heard later that they'd given him his
diploma anyway, but he spent the next couple of years
in a military school. His parents moved away from the
neighborhood without ever speaking to anyone about it.
I never saw him again; the paper sack with his Scout
uniform was still where we'd left it when I retrieved
my duffel bag.
Sometime in the year or so after our class graduated,
Sister Juliet left the order. At the time I wondered if
our one night had, you know, gotten her pregnant. But
Mother Superior left about the same time. From stuff I
heard from my parents later on and what I've read about
Vatican II, my guess now is that they were on the
losing end of a battle within their order, probably
over something like shortening the hem on the habits to
ankle-length or allowing nuns to use shorter veils that
showed their ears.
I never did get my revenge on Sister Margaret, or at
least not the way I'd figured. The last penmanship
classes were dropped, we all got "pass" grades, and she
wasn't around when school started up the next fall. A
friend of my mom's told her Sister Margaret had been
sent to wherever they send senile old nuns. This was
weird, because that's what I thought Ss. S&M was. And I
couldn't get the full story because my mom's friends
always slipped into whispers whenever they got to the
good parts in stories, but apparently Sister Margaret
kept insisting that the laundry smelled of sex, and
they figured she'd lost it.
As for me, well, I wandered through high school half in
a daze, which is to say I acted like a normal teenage
boy. Freshman year, getting pounded on by seniors and
facing hours of homework every night, I lost my longing
to be an ordinary kid. By the time I became one, in
college, I really, really wanted to be a brainy stud.
The brain part is lost forever, but in my sophomore
year I finally made a woman my own age. I consider it
the second time I lost my virginity.
I still think about Sister Juliet.
I wonder if she ever thinks about me.
END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 50