Paul Gable: The torment of sister Mary

"Come," the woman moaned softly as thrilling spasms shot through her cunt. The young nun felt she was teetering on the bunk of awful sexual madness. Then suddenly a wild explosion tore through her pussy, making the woman sink to the bathroom floor. Her fingers reached in, plowing deeper into the mushy heat of her cunt.

Please, God, it's good, too good! she thought to herself as the fire stormed through her pussy and up to her tits.

When she opened her eyes, the nun found herself on the floor, her head resting against the side of the bathtub. Her robe hung limply on the hook. Prayer, hours of prayer would be the only thing to wash away the terrible sin she carried.

With a guilty moan Sister Mary Theresa rose unsteadily to her feet, slipping the coarse garment over her shoulders. She walked slowly back to her room, feeling the weight of her particular cross on her shoulders. No more, no more, she repeated as she sank to her knees in front of her bed, bowed her head and hid her fade in her trembling hands.

"Sister, we need more stamps for the campaign mail."

Sister Mary Theresa looked up from a stack of papers lying neatly in front of her. It had been a long day. Mother Superior was somewhat upset because of the long hours the four nuns had been putting in at this campaign office. But Church policy hadn't expressly forbidden political activity as long as it wasn't disruptive to either the community or the faith. This office was perfect, Sister Mary Theresa had thought. Although sponsored by a senator running for re-election shortly, the drive here was for a cleaning up of air pollution there in Los Angeles.

"I don't know if we have enough in the budget," she said, looking sadly at a slightly young nun sitting behind a typewriter. They had done so well up to this point, running a successful campaign with the minimum of staff and equipment. But Sister Mary Theresa knew they couldn't keep on this way without more money. And support didn't come often enough in the form of money.

"What a shame, Sister Mary Theresa!" the younger nun said, pushing away from the typewriter and sighing. "We've come such a long way, and to think we're being stopped by lack of stamps."

"Sister Georgiana and Sister Clarissa are out now trying to raise funds at UCLA. Sister Georgiana goes there for class, and she thought… well, maybe she was too hopeful," Sister Mary Theresa said, correcting herself, feeling depression weigh her down. The campaign had been going so well, well enough to take her mind off that terrible evening when she'd done that awful thing to her body. Still she hadn't been able to bring herself to confess her guilt. She was living in sin, multiplying her sin by taking communion with the other sisters while she had this blot on her soul.

"I hope something comes in. We have to get the public more interested in this. It's becoming hard to breathe here."

Sister Mary Dominic was right. Their convent was just off Adams Boulevard, near the center of downtown Los Angeles. Too often the young nuns peered from their windows and saw the sky gradually turn a brownish yellow as the morning slipped by. A sagging economy and demand for cheaper fuel had turned the government's head away from supervising pollutant offenders.

"We can pray, Sister," she said, going back to addressing the envelopes. The two women busied themselves for the next hour, not hearing the door to the office open slowly.

Sitting behind her desk, Sister Mary Theresa had been thinking once again about that night when she stuck her fingers into her swampy pussy and toyed with herself. Oh, how could she be thinking of something that foul, that filthy right here in the campaign office? Guilty inhibition should be guiding her now. But once again her sexuality was getting the better of her.

The woman's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the slamming of the front door. Sister Mary Theresa jerked her head up. Men, four of them, wearing green military style clothing, strode into the office. Two stood by the door holding something. Only after several seconds ticked by did the young nun realize those objects were semiautomatic rifles!

"Oh, God, Sister Mary Theresa!" the young nun screamed, holding her fingers to her mouth as two of the men strode across the tiny office toward her.

"Fuckin' nuns. Told you," the tall dark-haired commando muttered, sweeping the top of her desk clean with his free hand. A service revolver was gripped tightly in the other hand.

"What are you doing here?" Sister Mary Theresa finally managed to get out. She felt terror shoot through her veins as the ruggedly handsome ringleader moved around her desk.

"Tell your friend not to open her mouth and she ain't gonna get hurt," the first man said.

Sister Mary Theresa motioned to the terrified nun to keep quiet while she tried to collect her thoughts. They looked like marines standing there. Two remained at the door, holding their rifles tightly to their bodies after locking the door and puffing the blinds shut both over the windows and front door. Were they thieves, radicals? If she hadn't known better, the nun would have thought they'd come straight from a war movie.

"I think we're okay for now. Told you it'd be a cinch," the first commando said, relaxing a little. He shovcd his revolver in his field trousers and smiled down at Sister Mary Theresa. The frightened nun felt a strange flash of something other than fear take hold of her body. His black eyes flickered with excitement and fury. The man's animalistic power both terrified and attracted the confused woman. No, no, I must remain in control, she told herself, holding onto the front edge of the desk for support. She had to have something tangible pressing against her. This situation was dreamlike in its ferocious intensity. The woman needed to take hold of something to remind herself of reality.

"Who are you?" she stammered out.

"My name's Tolbo… Jack Tolbo. But name's ain't important now," he said, sneering at her.

"We gonna wait 'til it gets dark?" one of the men at the door said.

Dark? Sister Mary Theresa thought of the two other nuns. Soon they'd be coming through that door, victims of these men. She started to explain about the other two when Jack slapped her across the face.

The suddenness of the blow paralyzed the young nun. She fell to one side, her hands grappling desperately for support. Sister Mary Dominic screamed, then pressed her fingers tightly to her mouth as the other nun slipped to the floor.

"I ain't no Catholic, honey, so don't think you're gonna hide behind some fancy hocus pocus. Rick, anybody doin' anything out there?"

One of the men at the window shook his head from side to side, his eyes still peering through the slats of the closed blinds.

"Who are you?" Sister Mary Theresa repeated, holding her head with one hand. It throbbed from the force of the blow. She could still feel his fingers against her check as she climbed back onto the chair and steadied herself.

"Told you, name's Jack. The group?" he continued, smiling cruelly down at the terrified nun. Jack's eyes narrowed as he inhaled sharply, his chest puffing out. "The Democratic Liberation Front."

Sister Mary Theresa racked her mind, trying to think where she'd heard that name before. Of all the off-beat terrorist groups crawling over this planet that one didn't strike a familiar note.

Her thoughts were interrupted by sharp laughter. It was the second gunman at the window, his face temporarily wrinkled up in laughter.

"Okay," Jack said, jerking his head toward the window. The gunman stopped laughing and went back to surveillance.

"Hey, two more of 'em coming down the street," Rick said.

"Christ, like roaches," Jack muttered. "Unlock the door."

"There's just four of us here, I swear," Sister Mary Theresa said in a quavering voice.