Hot Crossed Nuns

A petite naked figure pulled a nun’s habit over her fresh-scrubbed flesh, shrugging her narrow shoulders to accommodate the starched coarse black fabric. She cocked her head so the stiff outer layer would open, allowing her short straw colored hair to emerge as though she were being reborn into this austere life each morning anew. Rummaging through the top drawer of her simple furnishings she pulled out a white wad of silk. The fishnet stockings felt lighter than ether in her hands as she opened them up to the light. A beam of sunshine shot through the wide-knit threads to bounce off the bristle-scratched wooden floor and caromed, from the mirror in the 20-year-old novice’s room, to dance on the wall above her simple cot.

 

A spider’s spun web of sensual threads tugged at her bellybutton when she unfurled the diaphanous fabric embracing and kneading her recently shaved legs. She knew banishment from the order would be immediate if her secret were discovered. The danger of it tickled at the damp spot between her legs, a spot that grew more damp each time she took a new risk. What would the Mother Superior look like wearing these? she pondered as she measured the wide-spaced threads atop her shiny legs.

 

For that moment Sylvia was back “on the block” where she grew up, before she was rushed into the conventual discipline. She was a young silly girl who fell in love with a married man, who offered her corporeal indulgence on an erudite platter. His world came replete with orgasms and pillow talk: two realms the married man was well versed in. Sylvia cried the night she lost her virginity, not because it hurt or that she felt short-changed but because this man did everything in his power to please her. She had discovered self-gratification at the age of fourteen but this older, masterful man was able to coax supreme physical delight from her body at his whim. Not just a simple orgasm but a sheet-clenching, pillow-biting climax that made her weep when the blue sheets of pleasure consumed her vision. The center of her lust would then wrap her in his arms and pull her close to his body while whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Little did she know that his whispers were mere nothings and that his promises held less weight than the stockings she now secreted under her nun’s habit. With her emotional stability trashed by the older man she fell directly into the orbit of one of the twin priests from the local parish.

 

The two identical brothers joined the seminary together after twelve years of Catholic education within the neighborhood diocese: Our Lady of Sorrows on the Bay Shore Business Loop Turnpike. The twins began their denominational life as a celebrated pair. Each proclaimed their devotion to a life in the service of God at an early age and, though more handsome and athletic than almost all of their peers, they were never observed in teenage sinful indiscretions. Legions of young females had plied their feminine wiles in an attempt to sway the pair’s faith, to no avail. Sylvia had, within the period of one short month, sullied the reputation of the oldest twin—a full fifteen minutes older—and might have brought about his ultimate downfall if she had not grabbed the wrong twin’s cassock directly below the sash knot in a moment of childish ardor.

 

With the secret out, Sylvia was labeled a Jezebel, packaged as the same, and offered few options for her penance. One of those choices included a gold band on her ring finger as a visible indication of a nuptial commitment to the Jesus Christ of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. 

Many a bony digit from the diocese pointed towards the nunnery as the only just atonement for this temptress of the fabled twin priests. She agreed to this rather than the alternative, a nursing assistant in a leper colony stationed on Prince Edward Island: a flyspeck on the map some 400 miles off the coast of South Africa. It was an island deemed ideal for a colony of this sort being far from civilization and yet marginally livable. Sylvia felt a nun’s habit was preferable to an island where penguins outnumbered humans 3000 to one during the summer months. 


 

 

The silk fabric of the stockings gliding along her smooth thighs brought a lump up into her throat. Unfurling the filmy white fabric to the top of her thighs, her thumb nudged her pubic mound and a sticky thread of fluid tethered her digit to its wetness, seeping out from between the warm folds of her body. A shudder coursed through her flesh bringing her nipples to attention, threatening to give away her secret arousal to any who might glance in her direction. A hard twist of her nipple, between her thumb and forefinger, only accentuated the problem rather than relieve it and it shot a current of sexual electricity deep into her belly. “Shit,” she whispered, only to suck her lips into her mouth in an attempt to swallow the words already in a balloon hovering above her head.

 

After six months in the nunnery she still felt as awkward as a ham sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah but her illicit pleasures built a nest for nervous butterflies in her stomach each time she broke the rules. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands before she walked slowly to the door. Each step brought a tingle in the young woman’s sexual depths as the fishnet alternatively clinched and released the silky smooth skin of her legs. By the time she reached the end of the hall, she was nearing an orgasm. Staggering slightly, Sylvia made her way out into the garden through a side door and sat on a gnarled bench that contained several raised knots on the wooden seat. One of these knots had become Sylvia’s favorite. She rocked herself to a climax, strangling a rosary between her sweaty palms hoping that no one would notice her exceptional devotion to this early morning ritual. With a shudder, she was finished. She paused for several minutes to regain her breath and with a sigh—both of emptiness and physical satisfaction—rose to take her place at the convent’s breakfast table.

 

“You look flush and rosy, this morning,” the Mother Superior chirped when Sylvia scurried into the room, late as usual. Sylvia shot a weak smile at the head of the convent and sidled to her chair with her head held low, hoping to disguise her body’s lingering response to her recent climax.

 

The day she smuggled the stockings into the convent stood out in her memory. Before a weekly trip to buy groceries and necessary “feminine supplies” for her cloistered sisters, Sylvia telephoned a merchant—Randie’s Trampy Fashions and Lingerie Shop—near one of their usual stops to put in an order. Breaking away from the habit-clad gaggle, Sylvia slipped in a side entrance of Randie’s to spirit away her purchase. To the raised eyebrows of the proprietor, she prevaricated that she was a call girl who had a “special client” in town that begged for a certain look, which included Sylvia’s present clerical garb. The store was out of the black fishnet but still had one pair of white in her size. Sylvia took them knowing she would not be able to come back when the black ones were due in. She needed to don the stockings to hide them from her sisters’ prying gaze and in the fitting room; Sylvia had to masturbate twice in order to control her trembling. A quick lie about getting lost and no one suspected her surreptitious absence.

 

The buzz around the convent that week was about the twin priests. One of them had decided to leave the priesthood. No one was quite sure, at first, which priest because they were identical but eventually the truth came to light. The twin that had been tempted by the pretty Sylvia had found himself questioning his commitment to the service of God and had gone missing from a leper colony south of the equator that was sponsored by the church. A consensus of the cloistered women put Sylvia at the eye of the ecclesiastical hurricane. Their distaste for her grew rapidly and Sylvia was inconsolable. Even her daily “tickle-my-Elmo” sessions couldn’t bring her the ease her heart ache.

 

One bright summer morning as she sat brushing her hair the window to her cell squeaked as it tipped open rousing her from a lusty daydream involving creatures from an 18th-century Flemish painting representing hell and punish for sins of the flesh. She spun to face the intruder that clamored through her window. It was none other than the wayward twin priest. He smiled at her and she felt herself melting under his gaze. He shook his head sadly before he spoke.

 

“I took the assignment on Prince Edward Island, but was miserable there. Every penguin I saw, reminded me of you in miniature… wearing a habit, of course… and without breasts… or blond hair… and um…” He paused to gather himself: feeling like a small indecisive boy before her overwhelming beauty. “And I realized I didn’t really want to be a priest. I did it because my brother did it, that’s all.

 

“I wanted you. I’ve wanted you since the eighth grade. Remember when your fifth-grade class visited ours to reenact the flight from Sodom and Gomorrah? You were one of Lot’s daughters and I secretly wished that I had played Lot, instead of God, so that you would’ve offered yourself to me in that cave.” The former priest sighed heavily and fought back the tears filling the corners of his eyes. Sylvia’s stomach twisted into a knot. This man was everything she ever wanted: handsome, thoughtful, and desirable beyond simple words. His confession tugged at her heart and an overwhelming sense of desire filled the young woman’s entire being.

 

“I…” Sylvia choked on her words. “I love you more than anything.” She squeaked out her proclamation before she fell to weeping against his chest. His hands roamed up to her shoulders, down to her waist and back up again as he tried to soothe her trembling body. Gently, he kissed the top of her head while pressing her body flush against his. She sniffled quietly before she pushed him away stating softly, “I don’t want to sully these holy garments.”

 

She crossed her arms in front of her slim body and balled up the fabric in her tiny fists near her hips. In one smooth motion she pulled the vestments that separated her from the physical completion she craved over her head and free from her slender form. She wore only her white fishnet stockings under her habit.

 

The former priest drank in her delicate curves, his gaze lingering on the portions of Sylvia that made her a female and at last came to rest on the tops of her stockings a mere inches from the entrance to her womb.

 

“Daddy, likes.” He whispered.

 

“Good…” she whimpered before she pressed his hand to the wetness between her thighs. His fingers pulled the sticky lips of her labia apart while a clear fluid from deep within her fought to keep them closed. A tickle from his middle finger at her clitoris caused her to moan aloud and paw at his shirt with her free hand.

 

“…’cause from now on daddy’s gonna wear his baby like aftershave,” she finished, weeping.