Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 2: Chapter 7

With great thanks to Cafterhomme for editing support, innumerable suggestions, and online conversations where these bizarre scenaria were mulled over and formed into something solid from the murky mass that existed in my mind.

Thanks also to Slothargy for the incredible artwork accompanying this tale.

Book 2: Chapter 6

Chapter 7

It has been a full week since I last wrote in these reminiscences. The mistress urges me to pen more, telling me that I write well and what I put down is of interest to her. She also dangles the carrot of some unnamed and unknown prize before my nose if I finish, but, as you now know, that has been done to me before and so I am cynical. Yes, I know that she is different to Connolly, she truly is, but after all that I have endured, is it surprising that I find it hard to believe and trust in anything anymore?

But the real reason that I delay is that it is hard. Reliving that awful ceremony and our deception was hell but returning to those days as a full milk sister is possibly worse.

Still, I shall try. I must. Someone has to give us poor, tormented souls a voice.

In short, the life as a full sister was precisely like that as a novice, yet worse.

It was a routine. Wake, toilet, pray, be milked, pray, exercise, pray, be milked, toilet, bed. And that was it. Aside from Mass and confession, no break in that awful, monotonous, dulling routine.

But it was worse than that. The thing was the enduring loneliness. I was always in a room with five other milk sisters and yet I was always lonely. Imprisoned entirely in latex, silent, restrained, anonymous, we could not communicate with each other at all, beyond letting out a meaningless hum, pressing our restrained bodies together in those precious moments before bed. Even then though, with our ‘habits’ so uniform, white, all-encompassing, we did not know who we were pressing against. I had only one friend in that hellhole, Janet, yet who was she? She may have been the girl in D-contigent in the bed next to me, or she may have been in another contingent entirely. I had no way of knowing. We all had the same sized breasts and buttocks, regardless of how well the hormones took, the same tiny waists and the same anonymous visages. 

You could not even tell by height. Fr. Connolly told us one day that girls were selected and sorted by their height. The Church had a deal with the police and whenever a juvenile wanton was unearthed, they would take them and transform them into a milk sister. It was not by chance that he had been waiting at school that day; the police had called him specially. And the taller girls all went to a convent in Limerick, the short ones to an institution in Galway and us in the middle were split between convents in Dublin, Derry, Waterford and our own establishment in Kilkenny. And why? Because once ordained and in the full suit, true anonymity could be attained. Praise the Lord!

And so I became one of a number. A member of a contingent of six, the fourth of four such contingents in the convent. And I was a machine for milk production and that was all. I existed to be milked and the milk paid for the Order. The rest was secondary; the prayers to fill time and the exercise to keep us healthy and thus more successful as human milk cows.

The milking. Yes, I should tell you about that. Twice daily our contingent of six nuns was led into the milking parlour by one of the maids, and there were strapped into the machines. Literally, that is what happens; you are backed up against the metal, given a tiny seat to rest your weight on, then your ankles are fastened via cuffs, lewdly spreading your legs (for no apparent reason), another strap around your middle and a further strap around the neck. And then, once firmly secured and immobile, the breast caps are removed, the milking nozzles attached and then, when all six human milk cows have been attached, the machine shudders and whirrs into life.

How can I describe it, that moment when the vacuum starts and the milk begins to express? Better than sex, better than anything! Whatever hormone course we were placed on caused us to generate vast quantities of milk, far in excess of a usual mother, and the pressure on our tits was unbelievable. For the final hour or so before milking, they became so taut and hard, then the slightest knock to them caused agony, yet there was no way for us to relieve that tension. Yet once that machine whirred into life, the relief was palpable. It would suck and suck and I would close my eyes, at first just savouring the relief and then perhaps imagining that it were my own children suckling on my teats, or just losing myself in blissful thought. There on the machine is the closest that I have ever come to spiritual bliss and satisfaction. Prayers, no; confession, no; even sex, no. But being milked so thoroughly and professionally… I cannot describe, only one who has been there knows.

And yet, at the same time, it was demeaning and insulting. These were not the warm, grateful lips of a tiny human fastened around my nipple, but instead the unthinking plastic and metal of a machine. I was being farmed, like a dumb animal, nay, worse than that, I was part of the machine itself, just another component. And, if I were to ever fail and dry up, then another identical nun component would take my place. The dichotomy was excruciating and I thought about it often.

After all, what else had I to occupy my time?

And then, when we were released, it all began again. The machine was unhooked and our nipple caps replaced. These were made of silver and had the order’s crest engraved upon them. That, the world saw (or those few members of the world who were allowed to view us), but what no one save for us silent sisters and the sadistic maids who served us knew, was that the insides of the caps were lined with rabbit’s fur which tickled and teased us constantly, increasing sexual longing. Oh, how I wanted to finger myself, and yet how impossible it was. My arms were pinned, yes, but even my hands up behind my neck had grown stiff from disuse, and I could not even separate the fingers anymore. 

And then, as our tits gradually refilled with milk and the tautness and pain returned, then the tickling took on another meaning. It ceased to be purely sexual and titivating and instead caused one to grimace with the unwanted touch on that most tender part of my body, the only part ever exposed to the outside world, made raw from that simple interaction.

Which is why, I guess, for only a sadist could have thought up the whole milk sister concept and regime (reading between the lines of our lessons with Fr. Connolly as novices, I suspect this was all that bishop’s doing and not Sister Theresa’s, although who knows, perhaps she was one of those who liked punishment and pain?), it was usually just before a milking that we were sent out to exercise. As we jogged around that cloister, our breasts would bob up and down painfully, the fur tickling the nipples. It was a living hell, for as we jogged, our corsets constricted our breathing leaving us gasping for air and almost unable to carry on. But carry on we had to for, if we did not, we would miss milking as punishment and, trust me, nothing could be worse. I was only punished three times, each time not missing it entirely, but merely having it delayed for two hours and, by the Virgin, the agony I was in as my tits swelled to bursting point, unable to gain any relief. Indeed, after the first punishment, I actually passed out on the machine (not an uncommon occurrence by the way) and I had to be revived by Paula.

And as we jogged, quite often Fr. Connolly would sit on a bench and leer at us as we passed, his eyes greedily following our bouncing breasts and buttocks. Oh how I hated that man, the cause of all my misfortune, the one who had lied to me about getting me out of here and who revelled in our misfortune. He still took our confessions of course, once a week, regular as clockwork. Now, unable to speak or indeed communicate in any way, dressed as we were, he simply assumed our sins and our repentance and our fulfilment of the atonements. How that can ever be canonical I’ll never know, but then it probably wasn’t knowing that place and that man.

Yes, I hated him and yet, perversely, at the same time, I longed for those sessions for, as I’ve intimated previously, they were the only times when I was made to feel human. Although the conversations were one-way, they were at least conversations and, after chatting, he would always ask me if I was a wanton and, when I nodded my head the little the collar would allow, he would then open up his cassock to reveal his pulsing rod.

We sisters, of course, were meant to be chaste and pure, and for that purpose, our sexes were sealed off to the world. Well, all the world save for those with the keys and, who held those but the Father Confessor? And so, he would ceremonially remove the plug and impale me onto his rod.

And it felt good, it felt oh so fecking unbelievably good! His rod in my channel was the only skin-to-skin contact I had and as he built up a rhythm I would close my eyes and lose myself in the moment, being able to imagine for a split second or two that I was a normal girl again and that this was my boyfriend and we were doing what lovers do purely and naturally.

And so yes, I began to love him too. Love and hate at the same time. Impossible to separate the two in fact. Weird but then again, wasn’t everything about my life then?

Book 2: Chapter 8

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 2: Chapter 6

With great thanks to Cafterhomme for editing support, innumerable suggestions, and online conversations where these bizarre scenaria were mulled over and formed into something solid from the murky mass that existed in my mind.

Thanks also to Slothargy for the incredible artwork accompanying this tale.

Book 2: Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The time until our ordination grew shorter, and Fr. Connolly continued to promise me what I wanted. The bishop had received and read the letter. He had promised to act, things would be set in motion. Do not worry.

Meanwhile, the big day approached and I began to worry.

“Do not worry, Brigid,” he reassured me after he had taken me before confession, his cock still hard inside me. He stroked my hair and kissed my cheek and told me that I was beautiful. The bishop had agreed that, if I was not willing, I should not undergo my ordination. But there was a problem; to remove me publicly would be damaging for the Church and so instead I was to be taken away immediately before the ceremony and the excuse will be made that you fell ill. No one will be any the wiser. But what if you are lying, I asked him? He smiled. What is stopping you from telling them all then? He had a point. The ordination was a public ceremony (I was told) so what if I did shout out.

I bided my time.

Two days before the ceremony, the pressure started building up in our tits and milk started to drip from the nipples which were now exposed to the world.

The evening before, as we lay in our beds, I heard Janet sobbing. Seeing her modified form, arms bent behind her, mammoth breasts and buttocks, tiny waist and all encased in skin-tight white latex, I understood why. She would be living this for the rest of her life. I, thankfully, was escaping just in time.

“Don’t cry,” I reassured her. “We’ll be together.”

“But we shan’t!” she sobbed.

“We shall, there is nothing to worry about! We are to be Sisters in Christ, remember!”

She turned and face me and sniffed. “I should not tell you this, but because we are sisters and I love you as my dearest friend, I shall. Tomorrow I will not be getting ordained. In my confession to Fr. Connolly, I asked for this cup to be taken away from me. He has written to the bishop and he agrees. I shall pretend to fall ill beforehand and miss the ceremony. We will be separated.”

It was like Paul in the house on the Street Called Straight. At that moment, the scales fell from my eyes. “Father promised all that to you, did he?”

“Aye, he did that.”

“And did you do anything for him in return?”

Her eyes betrayed her guilt. “What do you mean, Brigid?”

“The sort of thing that a wanton might be inclined to do…?”

Her jaw dropped. “How could you think such a thing?!”

“Because that is what I did for him, and he has promised me the exact same, although I was to tell no one.”

“He… he said to you too…? But he told me that…”

“… you were special, that no one else was to know, that he would save you?”

“We have been lied to, Janet, lied to by the man that we trusted.”

The look of horror in her eyes was one that I shall never forget.

---

We were gagged securely for the ceremony. Gagged and cloaked. Anonymous and incommunicado. I was numb. I knew that we had been tricked and that no help was coming. My fate had been sealed the day I walked into that damned convent and this was merely the official recognition of that fact. As they shaved my head I was as if in a trance, there but not there. It was all but a dream.

It was the hood that jolted me back into reality, like a harsh slap across the cheek. The moment I saw it, fear engulfed me. I saw its anonymising power, the protrusion that would fill my mouth permanently, and the tiny crosses that would constitute the narrow gaps between the bars of my personal prison. I bucked and resisted, screamed, and fought, but the battle had been lost the day that I was summoned to the headmaster’s office and Connolly had enticed me with his evil offer. As it was forced onto me and into me, jacking my jaw wide open around that terrible tube of hard rubber, I felt my very humanity being erased, my life wiped out in a stroke whilst I was still living. Darkness engulfed me and then it cleared somewhat and through the narrow smoked slits I got my first view of the world as I see it today. Dull and cheerless, narrow, and grey. My hearing dimmed too, and my strength left me. 

Then the babe was lifted up to my aching breast and for the first time in my life, something suckled my life-giving milk. The pressure relieved and with it came the realisation that I was now nothing more than a human milk cow, existing only to be sucked and fucked. 

Within me something died.

Book 2: Chapter 7

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 2: Chapter 5

With great thanks to Cafterhomme for editing support, innumerable suggestions, and online conversations where these bizarre scenaria were mulled over and formed into something solid from the murky mass that existed in my mind.

Thanks also to Slothargy for the incredible artwork accompanying this tale.

Book 2: Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Fr. Connolly promised to do what he could but, disappointingly, the progress was not quick. Every week, before confession (so we could cleanse ourselves spiritually by confessing straight afterwards) we enjoyed each other’s company in a sinful way. Not always in the sinful fashion that I wanted however, for sometimes he would have me take his member in my mouth before jetting his seed deep into my throat. When he first did this and I protested by gagging and spluttering at the disgusting taste, he promised not to repeat it, and the next time he withdrew just before climax and covered my defenceless face with his warm and sticky seed. That was almost as bad, even though he wiped me thoroughly afterwards, and I pleaded with him to use my hole instead, though he did not always oblige.

He said that he would begin my removal from the convent by speaking to the bishop, but, when after several weeks of asking of the progress and receiving a negative answer, he admitted that the bishop had had to go away on a pilgrimage to Rome and that his position was being filled by one of the deans. How true this was, I could not say as I had no other outlet to the outside world, so I pleaded with him to speak with the dean, but he merely replied that there was nothing to worry about since the bishop would return straight after Easter.

And so meanwhile my restricted, monotonous life continued.

After Easter, I asked again and, after a few weeks of failure, Connolly admitted that getting an appointment with His Grace was not so easy as he’d envisaged, particularly since he had been so long away and was thus wanted by many people. I suggested that he write him a letter instead, an idea he had agreed with but, the following week he had not done so, and so, when he thrust his member into my mouth, I refused to suck and threatened to bite unless the letter was composed since I was doing my side of the bargain, so what about him? The following week he showed me the letter and it was well-written indeed and I thought would do the trick, and so I sucked him off enthusiastically and let him empty himself down my throat, but the following week he admitted to forgetting to post it and it wasn’t until the end of June when it was finally put into the postbox. 

Then came the waiting for a reply which never came, and so there was a further letter and then the scheduling of an appointment in August. I was getting increasingly worried, but Connolly assured me that all was fine and there was nothing to be concerned about.

And then, in August, something did happen, but it was nothing at all like that I had expected.

We were due to be ordained as Milk Sisters at the start of September in a private ceremony in the church adjacent to the convent (not that I expected it to happen, after Fr. Connolly’s assurances), but it seemed that there was more to do before we were ready and so, on the morning of the last week of August, after breakfast and toileting, instead of the usual prayers or lessons, we found ourselves again being dressed in our oppressive outdoor attire which signified only one thing: Mass. Yet we had attended Mass only the previous day, so how could we…? We would have asked, of course, but, as I mentioned earlier, by this stage the gags were de rigueur whenever our voices were not required, and since no explanation was forthcoming from the maids, all we could do was passively comply with them and wonder. I darted Janet a glance before my veil was lowered and the world went dark and fuzzy, and I noted a look of confusion and perhaps even betrayal spread across her face.

We were led out of our quarters by the maids but, instead of taking the church corridor, I sensed us turn right and walk along a second side of the quadrangle before turning left and passing through another door. At first I thought this was the confessional chamber, but as we continued walking and then passed over another threshold and down some steps, I realised that we had walked further and gone through the next doorway and into the entrance hall and then beyond which meant…

Outside! For the first time since my arrival, I was outside!

I could feel the wind blowing my cloak and under my feet gravel crunched. Then we were helped up into something unstable… a carriage… seated and… movement!

We truly were going somewhere… but where?

We rumbled along for some time, the motion feeling strange after so long in a fixed place. I tried to listen out for the sounds of the outside world, but the cloak dulled them, and I could see nothing due to my lowered hood and veil. I felt angry. Just one glimpse, one reminder of reality would have been so precious!

We stopped and were helped down. More crunching over gravel, then some steps and then a hard floor that made an almighty noise when our boots click-clacked along in. Walking straight, then left, then more walking, then right, then stairs, then more, then left, then sitting down.

After some time my hood was lowered, and I found myself in a white room. It looked and smelt medical. Standing over me was Amy and a man in a white coat. A doctor! He approached me with a large needle and then, without a word of explanation, this was plunged into my neck. I turned to my left to see Janet collapsed in a chair. Then my world turned black too.

When I awoke I knew something had been done to me. I was no longer in the hospital, but back in our dormitory in the convent. My head felt fuzzy and I was angry at having seen nothing of the outside world. My breasts and bottom ached and I felt strange down below. I tried to move but was chained to the bed of course. I twisted around and saw Janet on the next bed, staring at me.

I stared back at her for she had changed and, I assumed from the pains in my body, so had I.

It was her breasts. As I have already explained, due to the hormones, both of our bosoms had grown exponentially over the past year. Now though, they seemed to have doubled in size again, each like a pair of footballs attached to our chests and, like footballs, there was no longer any sagging or flabbiness, but instead they bobbed proud and firm, taut and hard as if they had been inflated with a bicycle pump.

Nor too was it just her breasts. Her bottom too looked as if it had been blown up like a pair of balloons. Whereas previously Janet had boasted a boyish figure with narrow hips, she now looked like some stereotype of a fertility goddess with wide hips and rounded globes.

And I guessed, so too did I.

But why?

What had this to do with piety?

And more than that, there were her nether regions. “What have they done to you?” I whispered (thankfully, the hateful gags had not been replaced). She sat up and opened her legs. There was no hole for the pee hole now, but instead a circular white disk with what looked like some sort of plumbing attachment.

“There’s something inside me,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

“Me too,” I hissed back. And I could. Some sort of rigid tube reaching up my intimate channel. Nor too was it the only invader down below. “And it feels like there’s a plug in my arse too!”

She turned around and thrust her now-impressive buttocks in the air for me to see. Where her bottom hole should have been, there was now another white disk with attachments.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

She shrugged.

We soon learned what had happened. Of at least, the rigid white plastic disks over our two nether holes. Some time later Amy came, unlaced our tight corsets, unchained us and took us to the toileting room. Our original toilets were gone, replaced by two white plastic commodes with a rod sticking up from the centre. Taking me by the shoulders, she manoeuvred me onto the commode and over the rod. She pushed me down and I heard a click and found myself able to sit with the rod inside me. Then I felt some liquid that burned slightly being pumped inside me. My belly expanded as the liquid filled me and I understood why my corset had been loosened. “It’s called an enema,” she explained in a matter-of-fact tone. “This first wash cleans you, then there will be several rinses. The whole process takes ten minutes. You will never use a usual toilet again; this is far more hygienic.” 

And so it was, with no smell or human interaction once the cycle was started. It hurt a little with my belly distended like a pregnant woman’s, the burning cleaning fluid inside, but the relief afterwards was palpable and the rinses refreshing.

Another small step had been taken to remove us yet further from normality and deeper into our own surreal world.

Book 2: Chapter 6

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 2: Chapter 4

With great thanks to Cafterhomme for editing support, innumerable suggestions, and online conversations where these bizarre scenaria were mulled over and formed into something solid from the murky mass that existed in my mind.

Thanks also to Slothargy for the incredible artwork accompanying this tale.

Book 2: Chapter 3

Chapter 4

I shall tell you today about our lessons with Fr. Connolly. They were not what I expected prior to entering the convent. I had anticipated a stodgy diet of Bible studies, Divinity and womanly chores. With our arms bound and our squeezed waists, all womanly chores were, naturally, out of the question, but what about the other stuff? Perversely though, I finished that year knowing hardly more about the True Faith than I did when I started it. Indeed, I finished my whole spell in the convent learning virtually nothing about Christ, God and the Catholic Faith. What I did learn about however, was wantonness.

Fr. Connolly introduced the subject in our very second lesson. “Have you ever heard the term ‘wanton’ my dears?” he asked as we snuggled close on the bench with him, his hands resting on our thighs. I shook my head, but Janet said, “Is it not a loose and sinful woman?”

“Well done, Janet,” he said, rewarding her by popping a boiled sweet into her mouth. “A wanton is a sinful woman because her soul has been taken prisoner by the Devil. The evil one works within her to direct her thoughts in sinful directions. A wanton enjoys the sex act. Indeed, she enjoys it so much that she wishes to indulge in it as often as she can. When having sex, she is truly happy; when not her body aches for it. She will have sex with any man, even if she is not married to him.”

I was shocked that a priest should be talking to us of such things (remember, we hardly knew Connolly at this stage).

“But why do I mention this, you might add? Well, for one simple reason: because you two little dumplings are wantons and the Church is here to educate the Devil out of you!”

We both gasped at his words and tried to stand up and move from him, but he held us tight. “Do not be so shocked, girls!” he said, laughing. “Janet here; were you not caught in the sexual act with one of the boys from a neighbouring school; the son of the most prominent man in town in fact, a boy promised to another since childhood? Do not deny it, for was not I there in the room with the police? Normally, you would go to prison for such a crime and, if it were discovered to be not the first offence, the sentence would be lengthy. Prison is good because it removes the wanton from the public, stops her from corrupting other innocent young males. But it does not save your soul. That is why I stepped in.” He paused and patted her bottom and she looked down ashamed. “Is it true, Janet?” 

She nodded glumly.

“And you here, feisty little Brigid, are you any different? You too were found with a fellow pupil and, within hours of the discovery, several other similar discretions were reported. You were looking at a ten-year sentence, minimum. Thankfully, we saved you just in time, and not just you, but others too. Did you know that another of the young men whom you had seduced like a Jezebel, a fine and Christian young man named Michael, had gone round to your mother’s house that very evening to offer you his hand in marriage as an escape from gaol. Thankfully, you had already seen the light and agreed to join this Order, otherwise the fate of that poor young boy, condemned to a life with a woman who only wants to sleep around, does not bear thinking about!”

Inside I railed. He was obviously talking about Michael Daly, the geeky kid from my class who Annie Murphy had told me had a serious crush on me. I’d played along for a while and given him a kiss on the lips – you should have seen his little face! – but would never have gone with a wimp like him. Yet compared to prison or the weird world of the Milk Convent, then yes, I would have accepted his offer. To think, if he had been just a little more decisive and a few hours quicker, then I could have been Mrs. Michael Daly and be living a normal life with arms I could use, breasts as God intended them to be and freedom beyond imagining.

It was so cruel! It was so unfair! So very unfair indeed.

The wanton theme came up again and again and, after a while, we began to realise that Connolly liked it. “You know what,” Janet whispered to me one evening in bed, “he gets off on it you know. Today, when we were talking about wantonness, that bit when he sat me on his lap, I felt his cock through the material. It was as hard as iron!”

“I thought I’d felt the same three days ago when he graced me with his lap. But then I thought that priests wore little cages to stop that. Indeed, Fr. Connolly told us so himself.”

“They’re meant to but the head of the establishment has all the keys…”

“…and he’s the senior priest around here!”

“So the old perv is going around with a hard-on all day long!”

“And probably jacking off at night as he thinks about us!”

“Ugh!”

“Ugh indeed!”

Ugh it may have been, but we were powerless to do anything about it and, as the weeks passed, his unfettered state became more and more apparent. Whenever he spoke about wantons, he invited one of us to sit on his lap and we could feel it pushing up. I would wiggle a little causing it to push harder and he would reward me with a sweet.

The lectures of wantons and wantonness were surreal. He would go into great detail over famous wantons of the past; court ladies who slept with various lords, or some depraved women who would want to experience sex in a variety of unusual ways, such as being tied up, or gagged or being smacked or whipped first. He would talk at great length about high society, about some weird minority subculture amongst Ladies of Leisure where the lady in question would be encased in a full latex suit – her head as well – so that she looked like some sort of weird sex doll, and she would live out her whole life like that, silent and helpless. He told us that some husbands would model their doll wives on an old flame who married someone else, and even rename them with that girl’s moniker, so you would be existing as someone else. It was weird, but when he talked about it, his member would grow so hard and, to be fair, whilst such a fate sounded awful, was it so different to our own, covered in latex, tightly-corseted and restrained as we were? At least we still had our faces and voices as Milk Sisters, that was a blessing indeed.

And as he talked, it was not just him that grew excited. Perhaps it was the hormones that we were both taking, or perhaps it was just being away from men for so long and only having him as our contact with the other sex, or perhaps it was just that we were the uncontrollable wantons that he told us we were, but when I felt his cock beneath me, I longed for it to be inside me, pushing in and out of my hole like Brendan McCulloch’s, Brian Murphy’s and Patrick Delaney’s once had been and, during our whispers at night before the gagging regime was introduced, I know that Janet felt the same.

And when I closed my eyes, I started to dream wanton dreams, of being restrained and helpless, encased in a latex doll suit, looking at myself in a mirror and seeing a vacant, blue-eyed, blonde-haired plastic sex doll staring back, and then my master would enter the room and it was always Fr. Connolly and he would climb on me and then powerfully spear me with his rampant rod and…

…and then I would wake up panting in the dark dormitory with only the sound of Janet’s laboured breathing and the creaking of our corsets for company.

Looking back, I guess it was only natural that things would go to the next level after that. 

It came in confession, a couple of weeks after the Christmas festivities (not that we celebrated much in the convent but, well…). I was having my weekly slot with Fr. Connolly, kneeling down and confessing the usual sins when, at the end, he asked, “Is that all?”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“Think about our lessons on wantonness. Are there no sins in that area that you have committed?”

“How can I, Father, with my arms restrained like this, chained to my bed? I cannot even finger myself.”

“But sins can be in the mind as well as acted out. Remember Jesus’s words about the eye looking lustfully. You may not have fingered yourself, but have you thought about doing so…?”

I looked shamefully at the floor. “Yes Father, I have.”

“And any other such thoughts?”

“I have imagined sex acts, Father, in my dreams. I have imagined committing all those depraved acts that the sinful wantons you speak to us about have committed. I visualise being encased in latex, disguised as a doll named Lucy and being taken forcefully by my master.”

I glanced up briefly. Under his cassock something was stirring.

“Your master?” he asked. “And who is your master in those terrible dreams?”

“You, Father,” I squeaked. Something definitely was stirring now.

“Me?! Brigid, you wanton! How terribly sinful!”

“I am a lost soul, Father.”

“No, no, Brigid, no soul is lost to God. But why, pray tell me, do you think you are so assailed by filth in that manner?”

I don’t know why, but it was as if something broke inside me. A dam that had been holding back surging waters for way too long, had cracked and through that crack water seeped, then flowed, then gushed until the whole façade came crumbling down.

“Because of this place, this fucking evil, fucking horrible place! It is hell! How the fuck would you like it being dressed in latex like one of those weird doll wives, having your arms restrained and useless, your waist squeezed so that you cannot bend and breath and your tits meddled with so that milk drips from them and they are three times the size they were five months ago? To be gagged and chained to your bed at night, to have breasts and holes that ache for attention and no way of relieving them and no hope of ever relieving them and only a lifetime of mindless prayers and restriction to look forward to. It is not fair, it is fucking hell on earth and I am as damned as they come!”

My laments dissolved into tears and I knelt there sobbing before him, both the architect of my woes and my only possible outlet from them.

He knelt beside me and put his arms around me until the tears stopped and my composure was regained. “I am sorry, Father,” I sniffed at last, “but I feel pushed to the limit. I said some sinful things then I know.”

“That you did, Brigid, and you used some very unladylike language too, but it matters not. God understands. What I did not previously understand is that you were not happy in your calling.”

“I try to be, but no, this is not the place for me. Even prison I could endure better I am sure.”

“Brigid, you have not seen the gaols here, but it matters not. So, you wish to be withdrawn from the convent then, eh…?”

“It is possible to do so…?”

“Possible? Technically yes, but difficult. Very difficult. An arduous process and…”

“Could you help me, Father…?”

“Me? I don’t know, Brigid, really I don’t. I mean, it is not really my place and…”

“I could make it worth your while, Father…”

“Worth my while, Brigid, but how? Through your constant prayers I suppose, although if your mind is not pure then how valid they would be I…”

“Not through prayer, Father, but other ways…” I looked at him as I had once looked at Brendan McCulloch. I hated myself for doing it, but I was desperate and any escape would be a good one.

“Are you trying to say…?” His rod was now rock hard and tenting his gown.

“I have needs, Father, I have just confessed them to you honestly. My body aches with those needs. And from what I know of the world, men too have needs…”

“But sin, Brigid, sin…”

“Sins can be confessed…”

He did not assent but I leaned my head between his knees. He lifted his cassock to reveal his standing monster. It was the first penis I had seen since Brendan McCulloch and it fascinated me. Overcome with desire, I fastened my mouth over it and began to suck. Fr. Connolly groaned in ecstasy. I felt him nearing completion and so I withdrew, letting it calm, before affixing my lips around the wonderfully warm throbbing shaft once more. Again I brought it close to completion and again I withdrew. “You wanton, you despicable wanton!” he murmured to himself, over and over again. “Do not stop, girl! Do not stop!”

“I need you in me, Father. I have needs just like you do!”

“But the sin, Brigid, the sin!”

“We are already immersed in it! What difference does one more make?”

He nodded and lifted me onto him. Slowly I was lowered onto that wonderful, throbbing, rock-hard rod of sin. Feeling it slide into me, so thick, so filling, was an experience beyond compare. It was all my dreams and more. As we established a slow and steady rhythm, the frustrations of all those months of restriction and hormones gradually built up and up inside me until I exploded in a climax of such intensity right at the very moment that he jetted his copious seed deep within my womb.

We lay panting in bliss together, he growing soft inside me. Then, he lifted me off, wiped us both clean with tissue from a box on the table, and smoothed down his cassock.

“The penalty for that will be an extra fifty Hail Marys and Glory Bes,” he intoned.

“And?”

“And I’ll see what I can do.”

Book 2: Chapter 5