A Teutonic Tale: Prologue to Chapter 2

A Teutonic Tale

Copyright © 2021, Dave Potter

Prologue

She raised her camera and snapped the scene before her. A landscape of foetid waste. The crumbling brickwork of the old dock buildings, the pride of the Empire in its heyday, now idle and ruined in its waste; the murky waters, stinking, filled with rubbish, the barefoot children running around, playing with old tyres; the penniless and destitute, huddled around fires to keep warm; the refuse, the cancerous decay of a blighted society, the rotting corpse of the Great Power that once ruled the waves.

Silke Ungerer smiled inwardly. This was it; this was what she had travelled all this way to see. The difficulties of getting a visa, the curious looks of her friends who wondered why she had not picked a more glamorous destination – Moscow, Paris, Budapest, or Beijing – for her university vacation. But no; luxury and wealth did not interest her. She had glanced only perfunctorily at London’s famous sights – Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, the largely empty galleries of the British Museum which had once held most of the plundered riches of the world, many of these now gone, auctioned back for hard cash. Today though, she had taken a train into the East End, wandered around the squalid streets where smallpox still raged, and the gangs ruled. And now she had made her way down to the Docklands, where once the ships of Empire had been loaded and unloaded. Today though, colonies and even allies abroad largely gone, they lay quiet and eerie. Just how she liked them. The images she had snapped would make a great exhibition when she got back to Hamburg. An exhibition that could earn her a First in her Creative Media BA.

Lost in her thoughts of a triumphant entry into the world of artistic photography, she failed to hear the noise behind her.

The blow to the side of her head caused her world to turn black.

Chapter 1

The building that she awoke in smelt damp and rotten. Its walls were of crumbling brick. Someone had spray-painted obscenities onto the one in front of her.

CHASTITY EVANS SUCKS COCK FOR FUN

For some reason, the irony of the name was all that she could think of.

She was obviously in one of the old dock warehouses.

Her arms were behind her and a tight cord bound her wrists. Another, digging into the flesh, did a similar job with her ankles. She tried to scream but the cloth gag in her mouth prevented most of the noise. She struggled but to no avail. Then she heard voices coming. A door behind her opened and footsteps entered the room.

“Here she is boss, like I said, we got her well and truly and haven’t marked the bitch.”

The accent, so far as she could make out, was lower-class and from the East End. Some low-level criminal she guessed.

This assumption was borne out when the figures came into view. Two ruffians in cloth caps and then a third with a worn bowler hat. He leaned down and looked her in the eyes. “You scream Doris, and I’ll break every bone in your fucking body!” he said, before removing her gag.

He studied her face, looking perplexed. Then he looked at the men. “Where d’you find her?” he asked.

“Just down there by the dock,” answered the one on the left.

“Sure, it’s her?”

“Course it is.”

“What’s you name, eh?” the boss asked her.

“Silke Ungerer,” she replied. “I am a citizen of the People’s Republic of Germany and…”

“You stupid fucking oafs!” bowler hat exploded, striking each of the two underlings harshly. “This ain’t Doris fucking Battersby, she don’t even look like the bitch! You’ve gone and taken some foreign fucking tourist instead!”

“You sure, boss? I mean, what kind of tourist wanders around the Green and then heads down to the docks. We were trailing her for miles.”

“I was taking photographs for my exhibition on British Urban Decay,” proffered Silke, wondering if it would help resolve her situation.”

“Shut the fuck up bitch!” cried bowler hat, striking her across the cheek. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You stupid fucking idiots! What the fuck are we going to do now? Not only have you let Doris Battersby go scot free, but you’ve also gone and kidnapped some foreign cow instead. And foreigners mean trouble, big fucking trouble! We’ll have the Peelers sniffing around before you know it and not just the local ones. If they find out, we are dead meat, dead fucking meat! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Can’t we just say this is her, boss? I mean, to me, she looks just like the bitch in the photograph.”

“Not to her owner she won’t! Look at these tits for starters; Doris had already had hers done! How can you confuse this flat-chested cow for a whore with hooters? Christ, you are fucking brainless, Meakes! You couldn’t tell the difference, but he will!”

“Yeah boss, but will he mind?” The other man was speaking now, far softer and with an element of measured thought.”

“What are you getting at Wilkins?”

“Well, this bird here, flat-chested though she may be, is a bit of a stunner in my mind, whereas that Doris Battersby was, according to the photos at least, nowt special. She’s nice now; plump her up and she’ll be a corker. So maybe he’ll accept her as an alternative. That gets him off our back and means he’ll keep quiet ’cos he’ll be complicit. Then all we have to do is find a suitable corpse for the Peelers to dredge out.”

“And what about her, eh? What about this little bird? Surely she’ll sing at the first opportunity?!”

“But boss, did not the file say that this Doris was destined to become a demi-doll. And you tell me of a demi-doll that sings, eh…”

The boss’s expression softened, and he looked at Silke with new eyes. Lustful, ravenous eyes. “Aye, you are a little stunner, aren’t you? And Wilkins here is right, no demi-doll is ever going to sing…”

Chapter 2

The catchy jingle came on, for the fourteenth time that day.

Waaaayne Walker

Inwardly, Silke hummed the all-too-familiar tune to herself. Then the heavily accented voice came on.

Ay up, it’s Wayne Walker ‘ere! I’ve been selling quality fresh meat for over twenty years. This week one of our special offers is the five joint roast…

That offer hasn’t come around for a while, she thought to herself. Actually, it’s not a bad deal. Better than his one involving chicken legs last week.

… and a gammon joint on the top, all for twenty quid.

‘It’s what I call plenty for twenty!’ she silently mouthed along before stopping herself. Has it come to this, Silke Ungerer, that radio adverts for meat wholesalers have become the highlight of your day?! When once you memorised the works of Goethe and Hegel, now you remember plenty for twenty. Get a grip, girl!

She glanced across at the other figure in the room, ringlets cascading either side of her pale, doll-like face, her oversized bosom surging with every breath, her eyes closed. Felicity Wade, the wife of Samuel Wade the renowned pottery manufacturer, had dozed off again. Who could blame her with only Wayne Walkers Quality Meats for company?

Perversely though, Silke was thankful to have Wayne… and Felicity. Every morning, as soon as the master had left for his pottery factory, the maidservant who was meant to be looking after them, merely turned on the radio to the awful local commercial channel, and then headed off into the kitchen to chat with her mates and avoid work, leaving her two charges all alone with only jingles, banal DJs, and the latest hits between them and insanity through boredom.

Things have changed for Silke indeed in the two years since we last met her.

As the head of the gang had intimated, Silke Ungerer had been declared missing and she had become Doris Battersby, the trainee companion who had run away from the institution where they had been keeping her. A month or so later a body was dragged out of the Thames and declared to be that of the missing tourist whom the German government were making such a fuss about. A coroner agreed that it was the body of a young blonde girl the same age as Silke, but the corpse was so decayed and rotten, that beyond that it was impossible to tell although the DNA samples provided matched. The case was closed. Silke only knew because her master had shown her the article one day with a smile. She wondered who the corpse actually was? The runaway Battersby or simply some young vagrant, prostitute or drug addict who fitted the bill? She would never know.

Her master was told about her true identity because he had seen the real Battersby. In whispered terms, the gangmaster had explained it all to him and then offered this replacement for Doris for free as compensation for his loss… and silence. He had looked her over, squeezed her bottom and then kissed her roughly as she struggled against him. “She’ll do,” he said once he had withdrawn. “She’s fitter than the old one and I like a girl who resists. I like Krauts too; their women are sexy as fuck. But she needs work doing. Can’t have her talking, so the same neck jobbie as my wife and the standard tits, lips and arse too.”

“Demi doll?”

“Aye, demi doll.”

At the time she had not understood what they were on about, but she had soon learnt and now she was living with the consequences. As a waltz tinkled in the background and the maidservants laughed loudly at some crude joke in the kitchen, Silke mentally surveyed her new self.

They had taken her to a seedy hospital and put her to sleep. When she had awoken again, two large, taut, heavy mounds blessed her chest, like a pair of balls waiting to be played with. They were obscenely big and obviously unnatural. How anyone could find them sexually appealing, she could not fathom, but Wade did. Her only blessing was that they did not equal – for that would be improper – the ridiculous dimensions of the breasts of his wife who was sitting across from her. If Silke’s new breasts were a trumpeting of feminine flesh, Felicity’s were a veritable parody of it, and she saw her sister in suffering wince at the weight of them whenever she stood up from her chair and her heart went out to her every time it happened.

Her breasts were not the only part of her body that they had violated, however. Her bottom too had received implants. Again, not so prominent as those of Mrs. Wade, but still enough to look ridiculous and jut out behind her.

In addition to these degrading changes, were others that were far more harrowing. They had messed with her down there. Not in such an extreme way, but one that nevertheless caused her much mental anguish. As a practising Christian, she had been saving herself for the right man, and so had entered the Wade household completely inexperienced in the ways of sex. Her private parts she had always regarded as being just that: private, and so too those of other people. No one saw such things or talked about them. Here in Britain, however, she rapidly learnt that certain men have certain preferences. In the hospital, a small vacuum pump was affixed to her clitoris exhorting a low-level – and tantalising – suction on it which drew out and engorged the tiny, sensitive nub. After several days, this was removed, and the clitoris pierced at the based with a golden ring to which a small tinkling bell was attached. Then the pump was re-attached.

Thinking of this, brings Silke back to the present, for the pump is still there, or at least, a larger pump is. Her clitoris, formerly hardly visible, is now prominent indeed and the vacuum pump – coupled with the frequent application of androgen containing creams – means that it now protrudes from her body a full centimetre or more. Nor too will it end there, as the continued, titillating presence of the pump for most of her waking hours testifies. Felicity’s clit – which she sees regularly when the two ladies are dressed and undressed and bathed together – is a full two centimetres in length and a grand party is planned for when it reaches an inch. Wade has told both of his ladies that the ultimate aim is from them to have developed clitorises prominent enough to be surgically sculpted so that they resemble tiny penises in time for their twenty-fifth birthdays but two years away. That this is possible, Silke has no doubt, but she does wonder why; why on earth would anyone desire a woman with a miniature penis attached to her genitalia. Such a kink is unfathomable to her but then so is much of what goes on within the mind of her master and, indeed, what passes for normal in these screwed-up country that she now finds herself trapped in.

Even this though, is not the worst thing that they did to her. No, that honour must go to her neck. Like the dozing Felicity across from her, that neck now always stands proud and swanlike, for its bones were somehow fused so that she can now no longer turn or head or bend it, instead only look regally forwards. If she wants to look around, she must manoeuvre her entire body, something which her master finds most amusing.

And in the centre of that neck sits a rose whose petals flutter constantly. That is the worst thing of all. In that grimy hospital they took away her voice. That criminal’s words were true when he said that she was a bird who would not be able to sing. Now she breathes through a hole in her neck cunningly disguised by the rose, just as Felicity Wade does. And her mouth, the lips plumped up with injections. Well, that is now reserved for other things.

She winces when she thinks of what is to come when her master returns home from work.

Following her release from hospital, she was taken to a dingy school and given a crash course in her new life. She was to become a companion, officially a friend to a rich wife who lives according to the Leisure Ideal, a perverse British subculture where women have their arms bound publicly to symbolise their liberation from the necessity of work. A symbol of luxury and opulence.

That is the official line. The truth, she learnt, as her own arms were laced tightly into a monoglove, so they were pinioned behind her, elbows touching, was somewhat different. Whilst officially her job was to keep the wife company, the mainstay of the role involved the husband. Which brings us to Samuel Wade, her new master.

Chapters 3-5

Zwerg8 Vignettes #1: Anastasia

This series of vignettes has been inspired by the artwork of Zwerg8 on Deviant Art. I have tried contacting them to ask them for permission to use their artwork, but have received no reply thus far and their DA page seems to be dormant. But to be clear, the images are all theirs and the stories all mine. Please visit their page and like their work.

#2: Tatyana

#3: Tsvetlana

Novosibirsk, October 2030

I saw Anastasia today, her glorious red mane cascading down to her breast. She was walking in the park, her bodyguards a discreet distance away. We did not speak – it could have led to some negative consequences for both of us – but she saw me.

And I definitely saw her.

And I cannot shake her image from my mind.

She is a woman transformed, transfigured. As her name suggests, she has been reborn. Ever since she married Oleg Ivanov, he has stamped his mark on her. Firstly in the piercings that now adorn her skin. Piercings that trumpet her new status to the world. The one through her eyebrow that denotes a married woman, property that is not to be touched welded in a language known fluently by all men of his way of life. Then the other four. The one through the right nostril denoting that she is no longer a virgin in the usual way, the one through the left stating the same anally. The one through her right lower lip denotes that the orifice it frames has also been used sexually, whilst that on the left lip… well, that is better left unsaid.

The piercings are but the least of it though. Her waist is now compressed to unimaginably small girth by a cruel corset which leaves her gasping for breath and her breasts surging up and down. He makes no secret of why she is laced so. He has a penchant for being able to encircle the waist of his lover with both hands so that the fingertips can touch at the back. So she is squeezed mercilessly to fulfil that twisted desire, regardless of the discomfort it must cause her.

And her feet are clad in remarkable leather boots that reach up to her thighs, laced tightly all the way, forcing her feet into an extreme position, like that of a ballet dancer, perched precariously on her tiptoes. And why? Just because he thinks it looks good, that is all. He likes the way she minces unsteadily.

Her costume of tight latex simply screams sex. It is sensuous, erotic, created to incite lust.

Lust for a lady that will always be off limits.

The zip at the crotch is prominent, its purpose obvious. An invitation to temptation that you would never dare take.

Not if you valued your life.

All of that though, pales into insignificance beside what lies above that waist and below the clip on the collar for the leash which he likes to lead her about on in public. No, the greatest honour must go to her arms… or the lack of them.

They are still there of course. Not even Oleg Ivanov would go so far as amputating limbs… would he…? But they are folded uselessly behind her and crushed against her spine by the fearsome Venus corset that she wears. From the front it appears as if she was born without them. And why? Oh, he makes no secret of that too. She likes to touch herself down there. And no one may touch his wife except him, so he keeps her arms restrained like that at all times.

As I glanced at her I remembered the past. The lively intelligent girl in my school who stole my heart and filled the class with joy. The girl with an independent spirit and dreams of university and then a career in Moscow, St. Petersburg or even abroad.

Dreams that were crushed when her father fell into debt with the local gangster and her hand was named as the price for his life.

How must she feel, that formerly free and self-willed songbird, now caged forever. What must it be like to be clad in latex, squeezed within an inch of consciousness, entirely helpless and dependent on others. Unable to resist when that flabby oaf decides to squeeze her tits, fondly her slit… or worse. Paraded to the world as nothing more than a sex object, everyone knowing what she is and how she has been used. Teetering along on those ridiculous heels, every step unsteady, unable to use her arms for balance or check her fall, forever short of breath and fighting the constriction at her middle whilst all the while the world watches on and lusts, laughs, longs, and loathes.

Seeing her makes my blood boil with anger at the injustice of it all, with hatred towards that bully and what he has done to my pure love. I vow to get my revenge someday.

And yet, at the same time, and I am ashamed to say this, but I long to emulate him and do the precisely same thing.

10/09/2021

The Girl in the Suit

Copyright © 2021, Dave Potter

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by and references the image above entitled Solo. It is by Loviante, and can be found on their Deviant Art page. I really recommend that you check out their great work and leave some feedback. The link to the image is here: https://www.deviantart.com/loviante/art/Solo-892847080

Please let me stress that the image is not my work, I do not claim any credit or copyright for it. My contribution is merely the story.

Dave Potter

---

The girl was brought before him by a maid, who guided her charge slowly and carefully. She was wearing a thick cloak of white velvet lined with fur that trailed on the floor behind her. Her face was totally obscured by a large hood and veil that surely rendered her blind. Certainly, if her slow pace and the guiding hands of the maid were anything to go by, it could not be any different.

“David,” said Lord Rotherdale, “may I present my daughter Clarissa.”

The girl bobbed in a slight curtsey. The maid came to the front and undid a clasp at the front of the shrouded figure and the cloak fell to the floor, revealing the previously hidden treasures within. As the maid busied herself retrieving the garment, I drank in the remarkable sight before me.

It was only after I had perused her from top to bottom, that I spoke: “How long has she been like that?” I asked.

“Since her sixteenth birthday. When she was fifteen a servant caught her flirting with one of the gardeners, a most uncouth boy, and so I realised I had to take extreme measures to preserve her purity and innocence. I had her first suit made and she was put into it on her birthday.”

“So you changed the suit?”

“The actual suits, yes, but not the design. Every year a new one is constructed to allow for changes in her body. Or at least, some of the changes. The breast holes do not get larger of course, but underneath she is tightly corseted, so the waists shrink. Her next one, under construction as we speak, is a full inch smaller.”

I nodded, marvelling at the quality of the workmanship, and trying to imagine what it would be like to have to live in something like that. “Talk me through it,” I said.

Lord Rotherdale nodded. “Starting with the head, cast-iron as is the entire suit. It renders her entirely blind and muffles the hearing too. Beneath the metal is a leather hood with a face opening. The suit incorporates a large leather lined gag which makes speech impossible although some sound can still be made. Try for yourself.”

He gestured to her breasts and so I removed the kid glove from my hand and placed it on the flesh. The girl quivered and I felt a stirring in my loins as I felt her flesh against my own. The breast, squeezed as it was through an opening far too small for it, was hard and taut and doubtless uncomfortable to bear. I moved to the nipple, erect in the cool air, and twisted it sharply. Her body flinched and tried to move away and from behind the metal I heard a muffled yelp. I held it firm for a second or two and then let go and she relaxed into her former position.

“How can she eat or drink?” I asked.

“She cannot, save at specified times. If she needs punishing, missing a meal can be one method, although it is not too effective. She is kept on a diet of gruel that Dr. Thornwood ensures contains all the nutrients that she needs but is rather tasteless. Usually, she eats alone, but occasionally I invite her to my table and let her watch me eat whilst the made spoon-feeds her. She is not allowed to speak without permission, save to thank the maid for every spoonful. Despite these restrictions, such freedoms are a real treat for her which she enjoys greatly.”

I nodded. It was clear why when the alternative was pitch-black isolation.

Rotherdale continued: “Moving down, the headpiece incorporates this impressive collar which ensures a regal posture. Clarissa has been subjected to severe neck corseting and stretching which has lengthened that part of her anatomy somewhat. Before she had poor deportment and slouched in an unladylike manner. Now she is as graceful as a swan.”

Indeed, indeed she was! But what must it be like to be kept in such a cruel position all the time?

The body piece is self-explanatory, ensuring perfect posture and keeping those delightful breasts prominent and taut, a constant reminder of her sexual transgressions. The arms are currently bound behind her now, but that is not always the case. As a treat, I sometimes allow these to be unbound and either linked by a chain between cuffs on her wrists or above her elbows, chained to rings on her sides of course. Then she may write or indulge in womanly pursuits like embroidery. However, it must be stressed that such occasions are not the norm, for to allow them with too much regularity would undo so much of her training.

“So how does she spend her time then?”

“In quiet contemplation in her alcove, a cupboard in her bedroom which I have arranged. It allows her enough room to stand, nothing more. She is attached to the ceiling by chains and there she may meditate on her sins and lifestyle. If she has been naughty, nipple clamps are applied.”

The thought of standing there in the dark, nipples throbbing from cruel clamps was too horrible for words. How had she not descended into madness? Or perhaps she had?

 “The suit also enforces complete chastity of course. Her holes are inaccessible. The only way she can receive sexual pleasure now is through those breasts, which is why they are covered by rigid iron domes when her hands are released.”

“A necessary safety measure?”

“With a wanton like Clarissa, yes.”

“But to return to her lifestyle, when she is not in contemplation or feeding, she is often exercised. The maid dresses her in a modest gown that conceals her restraints, and she perambulates through the grounds or even takes a carriage into the city and strolls through the park. I believe that it is good to remind her of the freedoms that she has forsaken.”

“But what of her face? Surely people would notice and comment.”

“She wears a pot mask and false hair over the metal. With a walking bonnet and veil on, it is not apparent.”

I nodded. The sadistic old man had thought of everything!

“Toileting?”

“At prescribed times only, under the maid’s supervision. Dirtying her costume results in severe punishment.”

“And sleeping?”

“As you see before you, though covered by a mantle for modesty purposes.”

“And that is her whole life?”

“That is her whole life, or at least, it is until she is married. After that, she shall be her husband’s responsibility. Whoever that is will doubtless want to relax her regime somewhat; this was only intended as training until marriage, and I shall not expect any suitor to promise to keep her as she is now.”

I stood gazing at the vision of restrained femininity before me. I took out my pipe, filled it with tobacco, lit it and inhaled. To think that a father had done this to his own child, his beloved daughter. To be so cruel and heartless, to lock her away in a torture device during her prime years, depriving her of sight and human contact. It was unthinkable! As I puffed away, I circled the figure, almost motionless save for a slight swaying and twitching. Her pale skin was covered in goosebumps, perhaps due to the cold, or could it be fear of the unknown. Finally, when I had returned to the front again, I turned to Rotherdale and said, “I am interested in your proposal.”

“Shall I unfasten her helmet then?”

“It will not be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I mean, don’t you want to know what she looks like before you agree to marry the girl?”

“No, why would her? Why gaze upon a face I am never going to see again?”

“What? Do you mean that you intend to keep her in this fashion?”

“Oh no old boy, not at all. I intend to take things further. What you have shown me is but the starting point…”

Written 23/11/2021

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 4: Chapter 8

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 4: Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Some Protestants of the more excitable type say that, when baptised anew as an adult in a river or tank in one of their queer excuses for a church, they feel this amazing sense of elation, like all their sins have been washed clean and that they are born again. All absolute nonsense of course, encouraged by their ill-educated ministers or pastors, but I must admit that, on that day when I woke up in the private ward of King’s Hospital (itself a Protestant institution, for a Catholic establishment would not have dreamed of removing two nuns from their order) I understood what they talked about, for it was as if I had been born afresh. Never have I felt so happy.

Even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of it… or to be more precise, the lack of it. For the first time in years, nothing was encasing me, stifling me, clinging to every curve of my body, entombing me. And, when I did open those eyes, my sight was, for the first time since that hellish ordination ceremony, free and unobstructed. I could see more colours in this white room than I had remembered even existed on God’s earth! Unobstructed too was my breath and my mouth. I sucked in in mouthfuls of hospital air which, to my deprived body, seemed like the purest breeze from the mountains.

And then I wept with joy.

After that exhilaration, however, came the come down. I tried to raise my arms, but found them secured firmly to the bed. So too my wrists. And, around my waist, I still felt a crushing corset and upon my chest those two obscene spheres of breast flesh bobbed unnaturally. Some parts of Sister Brigid I would not be leaving behind so easily.

What’s more, every time I struggled, the mere multitude of sensations playing across my exposed skin was simply overwhelming, almost painful, and for a brief moment I wished to return to my second skin, before I chastised myself for such a thought. It came in Shona’s voice “ungrateful wanton bitch!” and I winced the world away. 

But I had to look around! My eyes were pained by the brightness, but hungry for the vivid world I had seen through muted slits for so long!

To my right, lying on her side in the adjacent bed, was another girl. Her head was shaved bald and she had blotchy, pale skin. She looked seriously unwell. She was asleep. I gazed at her for some time wondering as to who she might be until I realised, with a jolt of horror, that she must be Sister Clare.

And if Sister Clare looked so awful, then so must I!

Still, looking awful was a small price to pay for being freed from all that hateful latex.

I watched her humongous breasts shift about with every breath, and wondered about her. She was a person; a living, breathing girl like me, yet I had never before seen her – or any other of her identical sisters – in such a light. And if I had not, then surely no one else had. That had been their most heinous crime. Even in our mutual struggles, we had been alone. They had robbed us of our status as humans.

Thankfully, due to my beloved mistress, I was now regaining my lost crown.

Around half an hour or so later, she too opened her eyes. I smiled at her and said softly, for I was still finding it difficult using my newly-liberated mouth, “Welcome back to the human race, Clare.”

---

Several hours later the bearded doctor came to see us. He had a clipboard and a thermometer and various other medical implements. He made various checks and jotted down various notes and then sat between us and explained.

“The issue is, ladies, as you can tell, you have been divested of that latex covering which, in my opinion as a medical doctor, should never have been placed around you in the first place. Latex does not allow the skin to breathe and stops vital vitamins from the sunlight penetrating the body. The result is skin which is degraded and additional health problems. Thankfully for you two, we got you before it was too late; latex-covered dolls and nuns tend to have a shorter lifespan, though whether that be due to skin maladies or associated mental health issues, discussion has not been concluded, or begun in some cases. 

“You, Brigid, were only encased for around two and a half years; you Clare for three and a half. Had you been in that state for more than seven, maybe only five, then removal and exposure of the skin to light and air for prolonged periods would have become quite harmful. The sad truth is that many of your sisters must stay as they are, even if they had the chance to leave the Order.”

His words shocked me. For the first time I realised just how fortunate I was. Both of us. And how evil those men who did such things to women were.

“Now, that said,”the doctor continued, “neither of you two have emerged unscathed. First and foremost, there are the arrangements in your bottom holes for faecal matter. All Milk Sisters are implanted with a device that acts as a valve, only enabling the passing of liquified waste when seated on a specially-adapted toileting device.”

I didn’t need this. The feeling of that thin probe entering me had become all too familiar, yet never lost its sense of deep invasion. Still, he continued,

“These devices, popular amongst the dolling community in refined circles, have become quite common these days. It would be dangerous to remove that valve since I’m afraid your anal muscles have been destroyed, and so you would simply become incontinent and require nappies until your dying day. So, that stays.” he concluded as we both deflated visibly.

“Nor too is it just your bottoms. Your skin has degraded, seriously so. Strangely, yours, Clare, is in better condition than Brigid’s here. This is unusual since you spent longer covered, but different skin types react differently to the latex.”

His comments shocked me. If my skin was worse than hers then, Jesus Mary and Joseph, it must be bad!

“Now, with your future roles in mind, Her Ladyship has decreed that you Clare, will be allowed to have your skin left untreated, since blemish-free skin is not essential for the job you will be doing. You, on the other hand, Brigid, must undergo treatment, as it is uncountenanceable that you appear lower-class or imperfect. Therefore, starting from tomorrow, you will undergo the plastification process that I believe you are partially familiar with through Mrs. Love Hart…”

All my low-lying distrust of men coalesced in this bearded arse. I would not be subjugated again! “Please no, Doctor, I do not want to look like her! She isn’t human!”

“Rest easy, Brigid, and yes, I agree. Frankly, her appearance is obscene. You will not be burdened with heart-shaped lips or eye enhancements, only the skin treatment. Her Ladyship was most insistent.

“It’s a very new and elaborate procedure, Mrs Hart being one of the first to undergo the procedure, but you are the perfect example of a patient who truly needs it as a therapeutic solution! We will dissolve the damaged layers of skin, the very outermost layers, before regrowing a new, blemish-free layer of bio-polymer as a replacement. It will need some refreshing every five years or so, but will be an essential part of your epidermis.”

I hardened myself at these scientific terms, but he saw my confusion.

”We would not subject you to this if there were significant risks, nor if it were reminiscent of your trials in the convent you came from. I remind you that Her Ladyship ordered this.”

I wanted to object, and if it were this doctor alone I would have, loudly, but if Caroline decreed it, what could I say? He seemed empathetic, but I had been tricked before.

Clare spoke up, “And what about the rest of the changes they made, Doctor? The breasts and the waist for example?”

“Your stomach muscles have wasted away. Neither of you can live without stays now, although they need not necessarily be laced so tightly as you have been accustomed to. Indeed, the ones you wear now have been relaxed to twenty inches for you Clare, and seventeen for you, Brigid. Clare, you will be laced much looser from now on due to your future duties. Brigid, you must return to tightlacing once you have recovered.”

My heart sank. Even now I would be far from free!

“As for your breasts, you have both been taken off the hormones programme that the Order kept you on, so the lactating will stop. There is quite a bit of natural tissue there, has to be for the milk ducts to function properly. However, the prodigious size is due primarily to implants, used for support as well as aesthetics.” he uttered the last word with scorn that made my opinion of him soften. “If you like, Clare, your implants can be removed or downsized; indeed, I recommend it. With you Brigid, again, this is not a possibility.”

It was like there was a weight on my chest, and I am not talking about those obscene boobs that had been grafted onto me.

“The other main point of discussion is your arms. Brigid, you have already undergone training which has resulted in the restoration of your arm and hand motor functions. Clare, your training will start on the morrow whilst Brigid has her skin treatment. Be warned, it will be painful and long, but the results will be worth it.

Clare nodded nervously, her arms still twisted behind her and quite immobile. I smiled to encourage her a tad.

“Now, before I leave, one final point: your hair. I am afraid to say that the convent uses a permanent hair removal treatment for all their nuns. It will never grow back, not anywhere on your body. Therefore, before you leave, suitable wigs will be made for you that can be securely attached to your scalps. We will also graft new, fake eyelashes onto your eyes, and provide you with the supplies to draw on your brows as you like. The rest though, will remain smooth. Do you have any questions?”

Neither of us did, so he left. We stayed silent for several minutes as we digested all that the good doctor had told us, and then Clare turned to me – her arms were not chained to the bed as mine were, as they were still held in strict reverse prayer – and said, “I did not understand what he was on about with regards to my future job and yours; why you needed perfect skin and huge boobies, and I didn’t.”

I smiled. “I do, for our mistress, the most wonderful lady in all the world, has confided her plans to me. I then explained about my diary and how she had read it and discussed it with me, and then formulated a strategy so perfect, so wonderful, that she seemed more divine than human.

“…so, when she heard about how Shona persecuted you more than all the others, then she knew that she had found the solution. She longs to free as many Milk Sisters and other persecuted women as she can, but she knew that they would be wary about allowing another into her care after she had let me leave the Order. Therefore, when she ordered a second Milk Sister, she made sure that Shona came along to look after her and that Shona had the choice of which Milk Sister to bring. It was obvious that she was always going to bring you, since she obviously enjoys tormenting you so cruelly and, so it transpired.”

“But I don’t understand. When they understand that I too have left the Order, then there will be investigations and problems!”

“But there will not, dearest Clare, for Sister Clare never has left the Milk Sisters, nor ever will she! Indeed, Sister Clare will be serving the Order in both Kildare Hall and then, perhaps later, back in the convent, for decades to come. The only person leaving will be the false Shona who, after meeting a man of low character and Protestant family, will run away to England and doubtless end up a whore. Indeed, when this happens, our mistress will be so enraged that she will go to the Order for compensation, and may possibly take on another Milk Sister and maid from them.”

Clara’s brow furrowed, she was quite simple and sweet, “I do not understand, for I am divested of my uniform and…”

“You may be, but Sister Clare lies, latex-clad, only a few doors from here, immobile and silenced as we once were.”

“But, I don’t… wait, are you saying… no, I cannot be… Shona?!”

“Yes, Shona is now Sister Clare and you, when recovered, are to be her maid!”

“I, the maid to that hellcat! Why, I shall torment the bitch until she wishes she had never been born!”

I smiled in a way I hadn’t since freeing my face from its shell. Clare was catching on. “That, I believe, is what Lady Caroline desires!”

“And what of you? Why do you need huge tits and a tiny waist?”

“Because Lady Caroline is a Lady of Leisure, and Ladies of Leisure always have a female companion to keep them company. That is my allotted role in life from now on.”

---

As promised, the following morning, I was wheeled out and taken to the medical theatre for my skin treatment. I was given general anaesthetic and soon exited the world into a dreamless slumber. 

When I awoke again, I was back in the ward with Clare at my side. She was sitting up now and her breasts were noticeably smaller, although still huge compared to those of a normal lady with such a petite frame, and hanging more noticeably, more naturally in some respects. She would need a brassiere at the very least. Her arms, I noted, were unbound, but still positioned behind her back in reverse prayer, although she had flexibility in her fingers and could wiggle the limbs a little.

“Brigid? Brigid? Hello! You have been out for three days,” she said.

I felt… different. Even though I had only experienced uncovered skin for a day, however raw it was, I knew that this was not the same. Yet I did not feel covered or encased as I had with the latex. I felt. My skin could feel sensations, the breeze, touch, all of that… and yet it somehow seemed… second-hand. Well, it did in most areas. My pussy and my nipples, they felt different in a whole other way. I longed to touch them, but my chained hands would not allow it.

“Could you… touch me?” I asked Clare. “Brush against me with your body like we did as Sisters?”

She shook her head. “My feet are secured, remember, but even if I could, I have been told that it is strictly forbidden.”

I grimaced. The sensitivity, the desire that I now experienced was beyond even that which I had felt and could never alleviate whilst I was a Milk Sister. It was not itchy, but that was the closest word I had for it. An itch. A deep, soulful itch. Had my purgatory ended or merely changed in its nature?

The doctor came, accompanied by a nurse. They helped me to stand and walked me over to a full-length mirror. What I saw reflected back was me… and yet not. The face was mine, the features and most of the expression, but it was somehow, I don’t know how to phrase it exactly… perfected? Like a master craftsman had made a doll version of Brigid O’Leary, shed away the damaged, dry, and sore layer to reveal this plastic doll, which was, I guess, accentuated by the bald head. Aside from the slight plastic sheen, it was human and certainly not an obscene parody of that humanity like Love Hart, but it was somehow, well, not human at the same time. I both loved and hated it, revelled in it and mourned it.

As if reading my thoughts, the nurse said, “You’ll look better when your hair is fitted, Miss O’Leary.”

I tried to imagine that wig on there and I agreed with her.

But if that was the face, what of the rest of the body? Well, I am almost ashamed to say, I loved it. It was perfect! Smooth and beautifully-formed, the sort of body that every girl dreams she will grow up to have. Well, apart from those ridiculous spherical tits! I had been gifted the sort of body that will drive a man wild. I smiled inwardly at that thought. Would the mistress allow me to have lovers? I thought of that night in bed with Love Hart, Her Ladyship and Michael Daly. Would she allow similar dalliances now that I was human-ish again? I truly hoped so. The ache down below and the tingle around my nipples certainly wanted to be relieved in such a way.

I felt their hands holding me, and it did not seem to cause that desire. Their guiding touch on my arms and shoulders was far more present than the maids’ handling of me in the Convent, through the cursed white skin, yet more removed than I remembered before all this. I yearned to ask the doctor about the ‘itch’ in my nethers, yet thought it too indecent.

They led me back to the bed to recover and Clare was taken away for her arm exercises.

We stayed in the hospital for a further fortnight. During that period, further changes were wrought on my body. First came the eyelashes, which were grafted on by the same doctor who had performed my other operations. These, chosen by my mistress, were much larger and longer than I would have chosen. When I batted my eyes they looked like an invitation to flirt. Each lash was perhaps half an inch in length – Love Hart would have been proud!

There were other changes too. I was fitted with new boots and every day I had to spend a couple of hours with the nurse practising walking with them. This was because they held me on my tiptoes like a ballet dancer and so balancing was almost impossible, a situation not helped by the fact that my arms were forced into a monoglove everytime that I left the bed. Whilst nowhere near as restrictive as the reverse prayer configuration used at the convent, it still rendered me helpless. But then, I consoled myself, a Lady of Leisure’s companion must also comply to the Leisure Ideal herself. I learnt that in my classes of which I had one a day with a stern governess named Miss Dobson who came from England and had trained numerous lady’s companions over the years. I learnt that I was to be restrained and elegant, yet never to outshine my mistress. That I existed to compliment and serve her. I had no qualms with this; after all that she had done for me I did live to serve Lady Caroline and however bad it would be to be wrapped and bound again, it was nothing compared to the hell of being a Milk Sister.

After a week, another person came to see me. He was the premier piercer in Dublin and, after being laid on a gurney, I had golden rings inserted through my engorged nipples and a much smaller ring through my clitoris which had been prepared with a vacuum pump beforehand. These additions did nothing to alleviate the ever-present unquenched desire which was now a feature of my life. Indeed, they repeatedly reminded me of that which I could not touch with my own freed and rebound hands!

Most of the time though, I spent my time recovering in the ward, sitting on the bed in a monoglove, a chastity belt sealing away my burning sex, and shields over my nipples just in case I managed to convince a nurse or Clare to touch them. Clare, who by now had some movement in her arms and whose skin, treated with numerous balms and creams, was beginning to appear vaguely human again, sat by me and we talked, learning one another’s stories and weeping over the horrors we had experienced.

Amongst other things, I learned the story behind why Shona had tortured her obsessively. Apparently, the two had grown up together in Westport, a small town in County Mayo. At school Clare had always done well and was tipped for a great future whereas Shona was often in trouble due to her delinquent behaviour. Clare came from a respectable family whereas Shona’s were infected by the curse of drink and, since Clare had been regarded as pretty, a certain resentment had developed between the two girls. This really exploded though when Kyle Lafferty, a boy whom Shona had been seeing, ignored his supposed girlfriend to try and woo Clare at a school dance. Her judgement blurred by some alcohol that the girls had secretly been drinking before the party, she had gone behind the school hall and kissed him, nothing more.

Nothing more, but it was enough. Shona, spying her opportunity, had alerted a policeman whom she’d had liaisons with in the past and who was patrolling the vicinity. The two lovers had been caught in the act and the rest, as they say, is history. My heart went out to the poor girl who had not even had the pleasure of sexual fulfilment with her lover. Instead, on the verge of happiness, she had been whisked off to the nunnery and then, to her horror, discovered that one of her minders was none other than the girl who had hated her at school and shopped her to the authorities (and who had, through an uncle in the church, managed to wrangle a job at the Milk Sisters’ convent).

And if that weren’t revenge enough already, she had then proceeded to torment her once-rival merciless.

“Four years!” Clare cried out. ”Nearly four years that wretch stole from me!”

“Don’t you worry though,” I told her, leaning into my new friend, “the tables are turned now and you will be able to administer some revenge of your own soon!”

Clare looked at me and smiled an evil smile. “Un-Christian though the thought might be, I cannot feckin’ wait to get started!” she replied.

On our final day in the hospital, our wigs arrived and were fitted. Clare had long red hair much like she had been blessed with before entering the Milk Sisters. With it affixed to her head, she looked human again and some of her former prettiness shone through.

My own though, did not reflect my former self. Whereas prior to my ordination, my own hair had been a rather disappointing mousey colour, it was now also red, but not a subtle auburn like Clare’s, instead truly fiery as if reflecting a smouldering passion. The wig, in cascading sausage curls which reached down to my shoulders, bounced around me whenever I turned my head. In the mirror, I had to admit that it was a great improvement on the bald ovoid that had been there before but, coupled with the long fluttering lashes and puffed-up lips now blessed with permanent pink lipstick, then it merely contributed to the unreal, almost-too-perfect appearance that was now mine to bear.

We were then dressed in our first proper outfits for almost three years. Clare’s was a smart but low-key travelling number suitable for a maid accompanying her mistress, although her still-bent arms were concealed by a fur-lined mantle. Mine though was a glorious creation in deep purple, fur-lined, suitable for a lady of consequence making a journey. I had never imagined myself wearing such a thing, before or after my entrapment, and indeed been unable to even imagine such vivid colours for quite some time! With my arms laced into a matching monoglove I was as helpless as when I had been a nun, and with an elaborate fleur de bouche inserted into my mouth, I was just as silent. A bonnet was brought out and fitted, the thick veil hiding my face from the world and then, I was declared complete, my crinoline creating a vast circle around my booted and tormented feet. With Sally sent specifically from Kildare Hall to assist us, we slowly made our way out of the hospital and into a taxi which took us to Kingsbridge Station where we caught the next departure to Kildare and the new life which awaited us both there.

Book 5: Chapter 1

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 4: 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 4: Chapter 6

Chapter 7

A week later I left Kildare Hall again. This time it was for a much longer period than just a few hours. This time, I was going to hospital.

Again my mistress and her maid accompanied us. So too did Sally, who never was sacked despite what Lady Caroline told Fr. Walsh. This time we were also joined by two others.

The hateful Shona McCaffery had arrived at the hall only the day before with an anonymous Milk Sister at her side. Daggers of hate shot from her eyes when she saw me – she had doubtless been told about my treachery – but my gaze was fixed upon the apparition next to her. The smooth, ovoid head punctuated only by two crosses and a circle at the mouth; the unreal figure with its enormous bulging breasts and miniscule waist, and the pure, shiny surface of latex. It was so long since I had seen a fellow Milk Sister; I had forgotten what they looked like, how surreal, how unnatural, how awful and yet strangely sexy at the same time. They. I mean me. I looked like that thing too, that alien being from Planet Piety. I shuddered when that realisation entered my brain.

“So lovely to see you, Miss McCaffery!” Her Ladyship gushed as if welcoming a long-lost friend. Honestly, she could have made a brilliant screen or theatre actress.

The dull-witted Shona was certainly fooled. “Oh, Your Highness, Your Ladyshipness, thank you for having me here!”

“Thank me? No, I must thank you! You come so highly recommended, the best in the kingdom for seeing to the needs of these pious sisters here! Why, that last maid I got, awful, truly awful! You cannot imagine the time I had with her! You won’t let me down as she did I trust?”

Since Shona did not know what that last maid had looked like, she did not realise that she was standing right in front of her. “Oh no ma’am, I won’t do nothing like that at all, so I won’t. I’ll be strict and firm like!”

“That is marvellous. I hope that, seeing you act so, will restore poor Brigid’s faith, the misguided sparrow that she is! Now, pray tell me, who is this paragon of piety that you have brought with you to tend to the needs of my precious infants?”

“Oh this, Your Ladyness, this is Sister Clare so it is, the finest nun in all our convent to be sure!”

Clare! It made sense of course. I should have guessed that the sadistic Shona would not be able to resist the opportunity of bringing her pet victim along to torture in a new location.

“Sister Clare, please pray for us all and welcome to my humble home!” gushed my mistress. Then she turned to the maids behind her. “Curran and O’Connor, take the two Milk Sisters to the chapel in order that they may become reacquainted with one another and may pray together for Brigid’s vocation to return!” Then, turning back to Shona, she said, “And you and I, Miss McCaffery, will take tea in the drawing room, for I long to get acquainted!”

Shona beamed like the cat that had eaten the cream and, beneath my hateful mask, I smiled too.

In the quiet of the chapel, Sally sat us down side-by-side on chairs and then, to Sister Clare’s astonishment, unbound my arms. Her head bobbed up and down in unbelief and I tried to imagine what her face would be like under that blank faux visage.

Sally then handed me a pad of paper and a pen and I started to write:

Welcome to Kildare Hall.

You will be very happy here.

Our mistress is a wonderful lady.

Now, please answer me honestly: are you unhappy as you currently are?

She hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

Like me! Were you also tricked into becoming a Milk Sister?

She nodded again.

Did Fr. Connolly and some of the other priests take advantage of you inappropriately?

She nodded more vigorously this time.

And do you hate Shona with all your heart?

This time the nod was most vigorous at all, her whole body rocking to and fro. I leaned over and hugged her. Beneath her latex, I am sure she was weeping. When she had recovered, I took out the pad again and wrote, Your nightmare is ending. Freedom is coming.

She looked at me blankly and I am sure that she longed to ask ‘How?’

You need to play along. For one day more. Then all will be revealed. Do you understand?

Clare nodded and I hugged her again, leaning in so our shared bodily warmth helped to alleviate our long suffering.

That night we were allowed to sleep together in my bed, and I, with unbound arms, held this sister in suffering tight until we both drifted off into slumber.

The following morning I was bound and cloaked and led to the entrance hall. Sister Clare, similarly attired, stood by me. Our mistress joined us along with a rather confused-looking Shona McCaffery.

“What is this Your Ladyshipness? I thought we was to be feeding the wains, that I did?”

“Oh yes, we are, but we need to take a trip into Dublin for a health check, which I insist on for all my employees. And, being a lady of fashion such as I am, I like to combine the trip with a little clothes shopping and you, Miss McCaffrey, if you are to be working here, require a finer gown than that one I feel. So, after we have dropped these two pious sisters off at the King’s Hospital, what do you say to a little clothes shopping, two ladies together?”

“Oh, Your Ladyness, that would be marvellous, so it would!”

“Well, let us get going then!”

In the car Shona chatted eagerly to Caroline, coming out with such inane drivel that I am sure our mistress was getting quite the headache. Sister Clare played her part with aplomb, sitting silently under her veil and cloak as if immersed in deep prayer. At the hospital, we were guided inside and then seated down, upon which our cloaks and veils were removed. We found ourselves in a large, white office with an elderly, bewhiskered male consultant sitting across from us.

“So, Lady Kildare, who do we have here then?” he asked in a rather plummy English accent.

Caroline waited regally whilst Woakes removed her gag and then replied calmly, “We have Sister Clare from the Sisters of Mary of the Blessed Milk Grotto, newly arrived at Kildare Hall to act as wet nurse for my children; this is Brigid O’Leary, formerly Sister Brigid of the same holy order, who has had doubts about her vocation, and then Mis Shona McCaffery, also newly arrived who will be tending to these two creatures’ needs and helping to restore Brigid’s sense of vocation.”

“Well, nice to meet you all ladies. Now, shall I take them in one-by-one for their health checks or would you like some tea first?”

“Well, I don’t know. We have had a rather long journey which has generated some thirst but… Shona dearest, what would you like?”

“Oh, tea would be lovely, that it would, Doctor!” she declared, not knowing what she was agreeing to.

Within a minute, a tray bearing three individual mugs of steaming hot tea was brought in and a servant handed the first to Shona. She received it with a smile, deposited four sugars inside, and then took a sip. I noticed Lady Caroline exchange a slight smile with the doctor as they both sipped their own drinks.

By the fourth sip, the disorientation on Shona’s face was beginning to show.

By the sixth, her eyes were struggling to remain open.

During the seventh, she slumped to the ground.

“Excellent!” said the doctor. “Now, for you two poor things, we’ll have to use more conventional methods.

He prepared a large syringe and sunk it through the latex into Sister Clare’s upper arm. Within seconds, she slumped into unconsciousness.

Then he came to me and even as the needle entered, I felt a weariness take over. As I descended into slumber I knew, joyfully, that when I awoke, my life would be completely different.

Book 4: Chapter 8

Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Book 4: 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 4: Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Going back to the convent stirred up so much for me. The night before, I could not sleep due to thinking about it. As we rode there in the car, me shrouded in my cloak, I leaned against my mistress for support and she sensed that need and leaned back into me. I was glad of the veil that blinded me as we stepped from the car and into the building itself, for I did not wish to see it, that home of so many bad memories. I did not wish to see the stones and the windows, nor too my sisters who had done no wrong, but whose blank visages would remind me of all that I had lost.

Eventually we stopped and I was seated. My cloak was removed, and the veil drawn back and I found myself in an office that I had never previously been allowed into. Sitting behind a desk across from us was a man. A man that I was all too familiar with. A man whose face spoke of faith and power. The pallid, weasley face of Fr. Walsh. That face though, did not even acknowledge me. Instead, it was focussed on Lady Caroline and was gushing and sycophantic.

“Lady Kildare, how pleasant to see you and I must offer my condolences on your great loss. Lord Kildare was a wonderful friend to the Church in general and this institution in particular and he will be sorely missed, although we may be sure that he is currently in Paradise with all the saints and angels, looked over by our Blessed Mother.”

“Indeed we may, Father, and that is succour indeed,” replied Caroline, neutrally.

“Indeed it is, although I am surprised, considering your grief-stricken state in particular, that you have decided to grace us with your presence today. Sister Brigid, one assumes, is no longer required as a milk nurse, but you could have just sent for a car to collect her since our arrangement is by the half year and that period is due to be terminated. You really did not need to put yourself to such trouble.”

“Thank you Father, but I felt that it was only right after the service that she has given us.”

“Such Christian thoughts, Your Ladyship! And I trust that Sister Brigid has performed satisfactorily in her duties?”

“Oh indeed yes, more than satisfactorily. She has been outstanding and most willing in all duties assigned to her.”

“Well, that is good to hear, very good indeed. However, now that chapter draws to a close and I am sure that the holy sister here will be glad to return to the fold of her community and reacquaint herself with her fellow nuns.”

“Ahh well Father, that is the problem.”

“Problem, Your Ladyship?”

“Yes, problem. For it seems that she does not want to return.”

“Does not want to return?” His face clouded with confusion; clearly no one had ever said something of that nature to him before. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, it is quite easy to understand, Father, although a little embarrassing for me as I feel like I personally have let the Holy Mother Church down.”

“Oh, Lady Kildare, do not imagine…”

“The problem is that when the subject of her return was broached, Sister Brigid here adamantly refused to accept it. She does not want to come back, Father, indeed, she does not even want to be a Milk Sister any longer!”

“But I don’t understand, I mean, how could she…?”

“How could she, Father? I thought that the True Church taught that we all have free will and indeed that is why sin is such a plague on this earth.”

“No, I am not questioning that, Your Ladyship, of course Sister Brigid, like all of us, has free will. No, what I am referring to is that, well, silent and bound as she is, how could she…?”

“How could she what…?”

“How could she… express such a desire… any desire. It is not possible!”

My mistress, who was playing her part to aplomb, nodded slowly and snapped, “Woakes, my eye! I have tears!” Her maid, who had been standing behind us, came forward with a silk handkerchief and delicately dabbed them away. Recovering her composure, she turned again to that hateful priest and said, “This is where I blame myself, Father, I truly do! I did not listen to your wisdom when I hired Sister Brigid here, and instead of taking the maidservant recommended by you, a lady named Shona McCaffery I believe, I insisted on selecting my own, cheaper servant. I picked a servant who had previously acted as maid for a living doll – I believe the life mode is much the same to that of the blessed Milk Sisters here, although far less godly – and, unbeknownst to me, she was… oh Father, I am afeared to say the words, something of a feminist and a radical and well… the results are what we see before us.”

“Your Ladyship, you are not to blame! Your thoughts were good and pure I am sure; you merely trusted too much! The female mind can be weak, and this is what happens. So, this maidservant turned her towards the Devil?”

“So it seems. She unbound her arms in secret and encouraged Sister Brigid here to write down her thoughts. And, due to her becoming attached to myself and baby Solomon, then she lost her vocation and, when His Lordship passed away, she saw that as a sign that God wishes for her to remain with us as succour and, I must admit, she is great succour indeed!”

The tears restarted and the maid was again on hand to dab them away.

“Your Ladyship, all this is quite understandable, and please do not blame yourself! I have no doubt that pious Sister Brigid here is succour indeed, and that she might have misguided notions as to a different vocation in life, but her place is here, among her beloved sisters and, were she just to return for a few weeks, she would realise that and would re-enter the spiritual bliss that surrounded her soul before she left here.”

“Oh, perhaps you are right but…”

“But nothing, Your Ladyship! We shall take her away now and all this misunderstanding will be forgotten. I shall summon a maid and…”

“No!”

The look on his face! Oh by sweet Jesus and Mary the look on his face! There was a man who was not accustomed to being crossed and certainly not by a mere woman! I shall never forget it for a thousand years!

“N-n-no, Your Ladyship?”

“No, absolutely not. My conscience will not permit it. Misguided as this poor creature’s notions might be, addled as her mind undoubtedly is, as a Catholic I could not permit myself to return her to a vocation that she feels might not be for her.”

“But Your Ladyship, Sister Brigid must…”

“Are you saying that this blessed Order runs on compulsion, Father, that the sisters are forced in this place against their will?!”

“Not at all, Your Ladyship, such would be immoral and abominable!”

“Then the matter is settled! I shall return with Sister Brigid to Kildare Hall and I shall personally work on her until she is convinced that this is the place for her. The recalcitrant maid has been dismissed and so, with the temptation gone then she will soon relent.”

“But Lady Kildare, it is out of the question, it…”

“Ahh, is perhaps the money an issue? Let me see; I have here a sum of two hundred thousand pounds sterling. Surely that would be ample…”

“Well Your Ladyship, it wasn’t the money that I was referring to, more Sister Brigid’s soul, but I am sure, if you promise to try and work on her decision then we can help her figure out God’s will independently and return to us at the time of her choosing.”

“And in the meantime, I shall, of course, require another Milk Sister to take Sister Brigid’s place – after all, I have a second child to nurse, and Mrs. Love Hart now lives with us and has her own children that need sustaining, and Brigid’s milk is tainted as it stands so…”

“Well, I don’t know but…”

“Shall we say the same rate as before plus ten percent due to the inconvenience…?”

“Ahem, well… that sounds perhaps acceptable but…”

“You are right, there is the small matter of the maid. After all, you do not want a second sister to doubt her vocation now, do you? You quoted a figure of £30,500 per annum for the hire of such a maid. Shall we add on five percent for inflation?”

“We could do… yes, I mean…”

“And this Shona McCaffery was cited before as the best that you have. I shall select her.”

“Miss McCaffery… yes, that is fine… indeed, a fine and dedicated maid. But which sister would you prefer… if you have a preference that is…?”

“Let Miss McCaffrey select the one that she has the closest bond to. Now, that is all. My lawyer will contact you regarding the contracts and payment within the week, and I shall expect Miss McCaffrey and the Milk Sister of her choice to be delivered at Kildare Hall by Tuesday next.”

“Yes, yes, Your Ladyship, that can be arranged and thank you for your generosity and continued support of the Church!”

“It is nothing, nothing at all. Now, we must be going and… oh, I almost forgot! Woakes, the document! Whilst the other contracts can wait, this one must be completed now as Sister Brigid is required and she has an appointment this afternoon. Now Father, would you just sign there on behalf of the Church?”

“Pray tell me Your Ladyship, what is this… document?”

“It is the official withdrawal of Sister Brigid from the Sisters of Mary of the Blessed Milk Grotto. You will sign on the Church’s behalf and Sister Brigid for herself.”

“Your Ladyship, I do not know if I have the authority to…”

“You do, I checked with my lawyer who has checked with the Papal authorities in Dublin. All is in order. “

“Well, I don’t know, I…”

Father, just sign please! I am in a hurry! I give generously to this institution and indeed, I have a one-off donation in my purse for £10,000 to thank you for your cooperation but if you’d prefer…”

“No, no, no, I trust you implicitly, Lady Kildare. Here you say? Then let me find my pen and…”

And before my eyes he signed his name on that most sacred of all documents.

“And now you Sister Brigid! Woakes, unbind her!”

And there, in front of the very representative of the Church that kept me in bondage for so long, my arms were symbolically untied, and I slowly brought them before my inflated chest, picked up the pen and scribed those treasured words:

Miss Brigid Mary O’Leary

(formerly Sister Brigid)

It was accomplished!

Book 4: Chapter 7