Anonymous: The Nunnery Tales

Surely, Father Eustace can never be such a brute as to flog that lovely rump, I thought to myself. As these reflections were passing through my mind, my aunt told my mother about the fault for which Emilie was to suffer. It appears that, because of her complaints of poor eyesight, she was allowed an extra quantity of candles in her sleeping apartments. When the Lady Abbess was kind enough to visit her in the middle of the night, and to her intense consternation, instead of finding the young novice wrapped in slumber, she was lying partly uncovered with her legs spread lasciviously open as far as they could get. A large candle rammed about nine inches up her cunt, which Emilie was driving in and out most furiously, and heaving and wriggling her rump about as if she was possessed by the devil.

Of course, any attempt at concealment or excuse was utterly useless, as Lady Agatha was an eyewitness of the transaction. Indeed, at the very minute of her entering the apartment, shuddering spasms overtook Mademoiselle Emilie and she released the flood of her self-induced passion. Emilie sank back upon the pillows in a half-fainting state, leaving her candle to drop out of its come-moistened sheath at its leisure.

Now, the Abbess was not a severe woman – on the contrary, she was especially indulgent to the young ladies under her charge. But, upon the discovery of Emilie, she was aggravated into being rather severe, as Emilie on being scolded, retorted with some impertinent remarks about handsome young confessors, and the superior privileges of the convent superiors.

All this my aunt related to my mother in a half whisper, not altogether unheard by the beautiful culprit on the cushion whom, as I perceived as I closely watched her, could hardly restrain her laughter. She didn't act very afraid of Father Eustace, I thought, and I was right – she wasn't.

At last he arrived, but before paying any attention to the naked girl huddling in the corner, he saluted the Lady Abbess with what I suppose he considered a “holy kiss” on her lips. Then he turned to my Mother with delight and surprise. “My dear Madame d'Ermonville, what brings you here? And who is this – this – young lady?”

This he said with some emphasis and I saw in a moment that he had found me out.

But my mother prevented any outbreak at the moment; she drew him to one side and spoke to him in a whisper. This conversation was not long. At its end he said, “Then, Henriette, will you promise? If so, I will not only keep the secret, but do my best for you in the bargain!”

This agreement was ratified by half a dozen kisses given and taken, which somehow seemed to me to be less chaste than they should have been. But I supposed my mother knew best.

“Now I think, Father Eustace, that poor girl has been on her knees waiting her penance long enough,” she remarked, “and in common charity you ought to inflict her punishment, whatever it is. Only don't be too severe upon her!”

“If only for your sake I will not, lovely Lady d'Ermonville,” replied the monk, whom I perceived was a man of gallantry. “You shall be witness for yourself.”

I must say that he was a very handsome man, but for his monkish vestments. The brown serge gown he wore, open in front, and merely fastened by a girdle, was not a becoming costume. What seemed strange to me was that he wore no breeches, or undergarments of any description. But I soon found out that this was intentional.

Turning around, and regarding with lustful complacency the lovely posteriors and perfect charms displayed by the kneeling girl, Father Eustace briefly asked the Abbess if she had confessed her sin and promised repentance. Being answered in the affirmative, he remarked he would not use the whip but would merely administer a few gentle slaps, then whisper forgiveness, pour in a little holy oil, and the younger sister might consider herself absolved and purified.

Nothing could be milder in the way of penance than this, and to my astonishment, Emilie absolutely appeared to like the gentle slapping. Instead of shrinking from it, she stuck her naked rump upwards and outwards as if to meet the infliction. He did not long dally over this part of the ceremony, and I could easily perceive the reason why, for as the monk knelt down to approach his face to the novice's white buttocks, his frock fell a little open in front, and the most monstrous engorged prick became exposed to view. It was a powerful machine, with a huge purple knob at the top! As it was quite clear to me how all this penance would terminate, I could not help thinking that Mademoiselle Emilie would find it a rather different affair to masturbating with the tallow candle.

His “whispering forgiveness” as he called it, consisted of his putting his tongue up her tight little slit from behind, and gently sucking it. The tip of his tongue worked all the way from the topmost portion of her trembling thighs to the curving line of her buttocks, then underneath again to that mossy nest that glistened with his moisture and her own. He flicked at her cunt lips, laving them thoroughly and plastering down the hair, then darted inside the slit, once, twice, and again until Emilie shuddered from fear and luscious anticipation. When he fancied he had sufficiently opened and lubricated Emilie's pussy for his purpose, he proceeded to administer what he called his “holy oil.” He meant simply that he introduced his enormous cock-head to the entrance of her dripping tunnel and proceeded to ram the full length of his shaft into her. Then he began to fuck the girl in the fashion of dogs. He remained on one knee and rose up slightly with this other leg, so as to better lunge into Emilie's hideously stretched pussy. He forced himself in and out with great rapidity, his belly slapping against her upturned buttocks with each down stroke. His balls flopped freely each time he withdrew the cream-coated shaft to the head, then he plunged inside again with strokes of varying speed and harshness. To better ease his passage, he ground his hips in a tight circular motion, which served to open the poor girl's cunt even wider, if that were possible.

Emilie, on her part, bore it very well, much better than I could have considered possible. After two or three natural expressions, such as “Ah! Oh!” brought about by the huge cock first forcing an entrance, she ably reciprocated his lunging shoves. I particularly noticed that she bent down, so that by looking under her belly she could see Father Eustace's entire performance, and the noble prick and dangling balls he was working with.

His hairy belly formed a beautiful contrast as it continued to pump with a smacking sound against her milk white bottom, and indeed, it was a very delicious sight.

I dared not look at my mother, but as I stood in one corner with my arms around my aunt's waist in an attitude of fear and intimidation, I could not for the life of me help putting my hands into her robe. I groped around until with one hand I felt the lowermost swell of her generous tits. I fairly crushed the soft globe as I searched for the pebble-stiff nipple that soon rose beneath my insistent encouragement. My other hand was equally busy, raking her belly and exploring downward until it found the warm cavern entrance covered with a forest of growth. I ran my fingers through the silky hair, then allowed one digit to probe the slit that seemed to bloom eagerly – and greedily – beneath my fumbling explorations. She never so much as whispered an objection, even though she must have been feeling something rather queer. For there was a prominent bulge in the front of my frock, such as no girl could exhibit unless she had pocketed a cucumber or a rolling pin.

To my disappointment, just as I was beginning to think that I could proceed to extremities with my handsome young aunt, the priest, Father Eustace, brought his delightful punishment to a close.