Saga of Sonja
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I’m going to hell for this one, but I was probably destined there already. This is my first time posting a non-fiction story, so, er, be gentle I guess. Sister Celine is basically a self-insert of me, so read into that however you want 👀
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Provence, France, 1562.
The slate floor possesses a midnight chill against my bare feet as I slink down the dingy corridor. I’ve had to discard my clogs, as the grating tap they would make against the stone would inevitably alert my sister superior, or worse, the visiting Monseigneur himself. I adjust my habit, keeping to the shadows and away from the candlelight as I proceed to the kitchen. The ground is a little slippery, having been scrubbed to perfection hours earlier, in anticipation of the venerable Monseigneur Romero. I sway a little as I walk, slightly tipsy from the leftover communion wine I’d swiped on my way.
There’s a growing arousal crossing my body as I make the last few steps, the build-up of a week of not even so much as humping my pillow. Life was easier before I entered the convent- there weren’t constantly people around me, even when I slept. Relief in the confines of these walls is usually impossible. Usually, but not always.
As I open the kitchen door, Thibault grins at me, his defined bare abs rippling as he heaps piles of potatoes and other foodstuffs from his handcart and into the shelving crates, discarding the cloth sacks as the potatoes crash noisily into their containers.
“Well there’s a welcome sight,” he smirks as I close the door softly behind me. “Sister Celine, the naughtiest nun in town.”
I raise my eyebrows sternly, trying to show at least a tad of decorum before he inevitably strips that away and makes me moan, gasp, and arrive at a fist-clenching orgasm. It’s a simple deal, really. Once a week, Thibault delivers food or other supplies to the convent from the village, ready to be prepared the next day, and as he unloads his wares, he gets to unload himself into me as well, helping take care of the nymphomaniac tendencies that got me sent here by my parents in the first place, as well as getting to take care of his problem, namely his wife taking a religious commitment to chastity far more seriously than I do.
“Not followed, I hope, my little exotic one,” he continues to grin, his strong hands picking me up by my waist, making me squeal slightly as he carries me to the long heavy wood table in the kitchen’s middle, his arm muscles bulging as my feet swing freely through the air.
“Nope,” I sigh, as his lips find my throat, his hands having already tugged off my coif, and which now are now tracing lines up my legs, tantalizing my thighs with goosebump inducing caresses, knowing he’ll soon get me to open my legs apart and leave even more sensitive flesh exposed to his wandering digits.
I begin to unfasten my habit, but he stops me. “It stays on,” he whispers, “Got to preserve at least a little modesty.”
He then rips the lower part of my robes away, tearing the dark fabric as though it were parchment. If I weren’t getting so aroused I might be annoyed, having to once again switch a damaged habit with an intact one in the communal clothing cupboard on my way back to bed. But in that moment I merely gasp, shuddering with ill-contained arousal.
His hands slid up my legs, under the remaining fabric that now forms a loose, short skirt, and move up past my underwear, stroking my belly. I clench my teeth, shuddering from the tickling sensations. He’s the exact sort of person who’d exploit how ticklish I am, should he find out.
We make out, my legs wrapping around him, his own arousal obvious through his woollen trousers. His hand remains at my waist, stroking, moving upwards, with my breasts and throbbing nipples as the inevitable destination. En route they cross my ribs, and I immediately jolt, breaking my lips off from his.
“Oh now what do we have here,” he smiles, eyes locked on mine, “A ticklish little nun?”
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, squirming a little as his fingers ever so gently massage over my ribs. “I’ll laugh, and people will come here, and…” I immediately collapse into a wave of giggles as his fingers continue with more pressure, the giggling soon forced into heavy laughter as they probe between the ribs.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs, “the door is closed, we’re away from your less sinful sisters, and you’ve made far more noise than this before without us ever being caught.”
I can’t form a coherent response. I’m laughing too hard, squirming and trying to pull myself back across the table. I have mixed success, I drag myself back several inches, only for his hands to now claw at my belly, a far more ticklish spot than my ribs, and one which his hands continue to tease, making me shriek with laughter and weakly try to bat him away.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t love this,” he teases, making my cheeks turn even redder than I imagine they already are. “Your helpless laughter is like music.”
“Thibault, stop!” I manage to say between laughing, my nails clawing the wooden table surface. “I’m too ticklish.”
“Or just ticklish enough, hmm?” His hands find my hip bones, that awful spot that makes me thrash like a fish out of water, and cackle loudly as though I were a witch rather than a nun.
“Mmm,” he muses, as though distracted from my loud ticklish suffering. “I’ve just had an idea.” His hands retract suddenly, and I lie on my back, quickly smooth down my robe, catching my breath and briefly wondering if I’d be experiencing a spine-arching orgasm right now if he hadn’t discovered how ticklish I was.
Having caught my breath, I sit up, only to see Thibault looming over me with one of the large, discarded potato sacks.
“What are you do-” I begin, only to be plunged into darkness as he abruptly casts it down over my head and upper body. I squirm against the coarse fabric, and feel him tighten the opening around my waist.
“Well I know how much you liked me tying you down to this table last week,” he says. “So let's see how wet this makes you.”
The world becomes a sudden rush of momentum as Thibault flips me over to my belly, and tugs me someway down the table, so that my upturned ass is nearly hanging over the edge where my legs dangle and kick. I yelp as he smacks my left asscheek.
“I remember how much you liked that too,” he teases, “despite your protests at the time”.
“You're dead,” I mumble through the sack, unclear if he’s heard me. Either way, a second smack follows, this time on the other cheek.
“Just need to take some cord from the other sacks, hang on a moment, holy sister,” he says. I then feel him grab my left ankle, and the scratchy cord is fastened around it- tight, but not oppressively so. He then bends my leg back, until my heel is resting against my slightly sore rear end, and he ties the ankle cord around my thigh, lifting me up slightly to loop it. I can’t move that leg at all now, only wiggle my toes. I try to kick him with my free leg, but he catches my foot easily, and it soon experiences the same fate.
“What a beautiful sight,” he whistles, patting my calves. “With a sack over your face, you’re more modest than ever. So devoted.” His hands then begin to trace my thighs once again. “I wonder,” he continues, “if this is making you as horny as it’s making me.”
Damn him, why does he have this effect on me? Because, of course, I’m extremely aroused right now, knowing I’m at his mercy, and soon about to have his massive scimitar of a cock penetrating me. I squirm against the table, partly to free myself, but partly to try and grind myself against the hard surface and bring myself to a swifter orgasm. The built-up tension in my womanhood is unbearable, pressure already building, as if my body knows the week’s abstinence is immediately coming to an explosive end.
I then squirm for a third reason. A single finger from each of his hands has traced their way down my bare soles. Oh God, not that.
“Well now, ticklish feet? No surprise there,” he laughs. His fingers return, more numerous now, caressing my arches, insteps, heels. My sack-muffled laughter must still be loud enough to fill the room. I try to shout out threats, or pleas, but- and Mother Mary excuse my language- my feet are so damn ticklish.
“That’s it, pretty nun, laugh it up and let it aaaaall out, you can be silent tomorrow in mass.”
“I just want to come,” I moan through my shrieking cackles, my fingernails clawing helplessly against the sack. “No tickling.”
Perhaps he’s heard me; his hands spread my legs apart, leaving only the thin fabric of my undergarments to preserve my modesty.
“Damn, you’ve loving this aren’t you,” he exclaims, stroking the moist fabric and making me moan and attempt to writhe backwards against his fingers. I just want penetration, no more teasing. I feel the fabric, dragged away, the night-time kitchen air cool against my naked mound. Thibault spends the next few minutes massaging my outer lips, me grinding against his fingertips and moaning as I lubricate them with my unbearable wetness.
Thibault repositions me, and I gasp, my eyes practically rolling into my head as he enters me without comment. My body shakes, warm, throbbing pressure stretching me out, a pressure that rolls up my insides. Hail Mary, this is true divinity.
He slides out, then in, his length and girth leaving me in a constant state of euphoria. I’ll come first, that’s inevitable. I shudder, thinking delightful thoughts of how much he intensely I will climax, when he slows the pace, and says, “I need you to squirm more, this position isn't great for mobility.”
Untie this sack then you turnip, I think, trying as best as the binds will allow me to gyrate against his rock-hard manhood.
“Perhaps this will get you going,” he whispers. My toes clench as his fingers brush my soles which are practically pressed against his chest. Oh god, not again.
I buck against him, laughter spilling out of me once more as his stubby fingernails explore the recesses of my feet. I can’t move them, their whole ticklish surfaces utterly exposed to him as he continues to screw me. My body is so horny, but my feet are so sensitive, the two forces turning my brain to mush. I want to come, but I can’t help but laugh, especially as his fingers play with my toes, scratching between them and making me howl.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he exclaims, moaning loudly, “I’m going to blow soon, my promiscuous, ticklish little nun.”
I’m in sexual hell. The tickling is insufferable, and having discovered the weak spots around my toes, his fingers won’t leave there, drawing wave after wave of howling cackles from me, my hair stuck around my face inside the sack, fingers still clawing in desperation. Every so often, as he pushes further into me more, or thrusts at a new angle, open up fresh inner warmth inside me, the sexual pounding returns as the dominant force, my laughter subsiding enough as I feel my orgasm building and building, only for it to be snatched away as his fingers strike another unbearable ticklish spot around my toes, and I wail with renewed laughter as the orgasm ebbs just enough back from the brink to leave me with pounding tension between my legs, and breathless laughter coursing across the rest of my helpless body.
One of his hands ceases the tickling, and I recover just enough to feel the pulsing pressure return as the dominant force, my laughter giving way to renewed gasps of pleasure. I’m close, so close… I then scream out, as my briefly reprieved foot is met with hundreds of hard, scratchy bristles, each of which scratches with just enough pressure against the arches of my feet to make me scream with shrill laughter.
“Like this, do you,” he gasps. “Old potato scrubber, just within arm’s reach.”
I don’t care how he got it, I just want it to end. This is torture, my toes being scratched on one foot, the arch of my other essentially being licked by the tongue of Satan. Tears are streaming down my face as I laugh myself ever shy of the orgasm I desperately crave. Hell, I’m more likely to pee than climax at this point. My body starts shaking as the scrubber moves up to my toes. This is Hell, I’m dead, and this is my punishment.
“Oh god! Yes, yes!” Thibault cries out. He’s close, closer than I am, and yet his fingers still won’t stop. Please just stop, I think through the laughter, we’ll likely come together if you just stop.
“Gah!” he cries out after an aggressive thrust, with me feeling the distant, vague sensation of his warmth spreading. My turn, I think, giggling furiously as his fingers relent a little, returning to my insteps. Come on, my turn. So close…
There’s a loud, jarring bang, wood cracking against stone.
“What the…” Thibault mutters, pulling out from me just as I approach the critical point.
“You, farm boy, what on earth are you doing,” booms the loud, commanding voice of Monsignor Romero. “And is that a sister of the cloth? By St. Michael, there’s going to be Hell to pay for this.”
The sack is ripped away from me, and my frantic, wide-eyed, and dishevelled face looks up into the cold dark eyes of the Monseigneur.
“It was all her idea, she’s insatiable,” Thibault cries. He runs off, throwing the kitchen’s back door open and disappearing. Bastard. There’s no escape for me, however. I can’t run, or talk my way out of this.
“I think,” says the Monseigneur calmly, eyes tracing down my body, to my bare legs and tied ankles. “That such violations of the holy orders require a particularly strong form of discipline. Oh yes, the penance for this will be severe…”
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If people want, there'll probably be a part 2 for this, likely even more sacrilegious. We'll see!
********************************************************
Provence, France, 1562.
The slate floor possesses a midnight chill against my bare feet as I slink down the dingy corridor. I’ve had to discard my clogs, as the grating tap they would make against the stone would inevitably alert my sister superior, or worse, the visiting Monseigneur himself. I adjust my habit, keeping to the shadows and away from the candlelight as I proceed to the kitchen. The ground is a little slippery, having been scrubbed to perfection hours earlier, in anticipation of the venerable Monseigneur Romero. I sway a little as I walk, slightly tipsy from the leftover communion wine I’d swiped on my way.
There’s a growing arousal crossing my body as I make the last few steps, the build-up of a week of not even so much as humping my pillow. Life was easier before I entered the convent- there weren’t constantly people around me, even when I slept. Relief in the confines of these walls is usually impossible. Usually, but not always.
As I open the kitchen door, Thibault grins at me, his defined bare abs rippling as he heaps piles of potatoes and other foodstuffs from his handcart and into the shelving crates, discarding the cloth sacks as the potatoes crash noisily into their containers.
“Well there’s a welcome sight,” he smirks as I close the door softly behind me. “Sister Celine, the naughtiest nun in town.”
I raise my eyebrows sternly, trying to show at least a tad of decorum before he inevitably strips that away and makes me moan, gasp, and arrive at a fist-clenching orgasm. It’s a simple deal, really. Once a week, Thibault delivers food or other supplies to the convent from the village, ready to be prepared the next day, and as he unloads his wares, he gets to unload himself into me as well, helping take care of the nymphomaniac tendencies that got me sent here by my parents in the first place, as well as getting to take care of his problem, namely his wife taking a religious commitment to chastity far more seriously than I do.
“Not followed, I hope, my little exotic one,” he continues to grin, his strong hands picking me up by my waist, making me squeal slightly as he carries me to the long heavy wood table in the kitchen’s middle, his arm muscles bulging as my feet swing freely through the air.
“Nope,” I sigh, as his lips find my throat, his hands having already tugged off my coif, and which now are now tracing lines up my legs, tantalizing my thighs with goosebump inducing caresses, knowing he’ll soon get me to open my legs apart and leave even more sensitive flesh exposed to his wandering digits.
I begin to unfasten my habit, but he stops me. “It stays on,” he whispers, “Got to preserve at least a little modesty.”
He then rips the lower part of my robes away, tearing the dark fabric as though it were parchment. If I weren’t getting so aroused I might be annoyed, having to once again switch a damaged habit with an intact one in the communal clothing cupboard on my way back to bed. But in that moment I merely gasp, shuddering with ill-contained arousal.
His hands slid up my legs, under the remaining fabric that now forms a loose, short skirt, and move up past my underwear, stroking my belly. I clench my teeth, shuddering from the tickling sensations. He’s the exact sort of person who’d exploit how ticklish I am, should he find out.
We make out, my legs wrapping around him, his own arousal obvious through his woollen trousers. His hand remains at my waist, stroking, moving upwards, with my breasts and throbbing nipples as the inevitable destination. En route they cross my ribs, and I immediately jolt, breaking my lips off from his.
“Oh now what do we have here,” he smiles, eyes locked on mine, “A ticklish little nun?”
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, squirming a little as his fingers ever so gently massage over my ribs. “I’ll laugh, and people will come here, and…” I immediately collapse into a wave of giggles as his fingers continue with more pressure, the giggling soon forced into heavy laughter as they probe between the ribs.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs, “the door is closed, we’re away from your less sinful sisters, and you’ve made far more noise than this before without us ever being caught.”
I can’t form a coherent response. I’m laughing too hard, squirming and trying to pull myself back across the table. I have mixed success, I drag myself back several inches, only for his hands to now claw at my belly, a far more ticklish spot than my ribs, and one which his hands continue to tease, making me shriek with laughter and weakly try to bat him away.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t love this,” he teases, making my cheeks turn even redder than I imagine they already are. “Your helpless laughter is like music.”
“Thibault, stop!” I manage to say between laughing, my nails clawing the wooden table surface. “I’m too ticklish.”
“Or just ticklish enough, hmm?” His hands find my hip bones, that awful spot that makes me thrash like a fish out of water, and cackle loudly as though I were a witch rather than a nun.
“Mmm,” he muses, as though distracted from my loud ticklish suffering. “I’ve just had an idea.” His hands retract suddenly, and I lie on my back, quickly smooth down my robe, catching my breath and briefly wondering if I’d be experiencing a spine-arching orgasm right now if he hadn’t discovered how ticklish I was.
Having caught my breath, I sit up, only to see Thibault looming over me with one of the large, discarded potato sacks.
“What are you do-” I begin, only to be plunged into darkness as he abruptly casts it down over my head and upper body. I squirm against the coarse fabric, and feel him tighten the opening around my waist.
“Well I know how much you liked me tying you down to this table last week,” he says. “So let's see how wet this makes you.”
The world becomes a sudden rush of momentum as Thibault flips me over to my belly, and tugs me someway down the table, so that my upturned ass is nearly hanging over the edge where my legs dangle and kick. I yelp as he smacks my left asscheek.
“I remember how much you liked that too,” he teases, “despite your protests at the time”.
“You're dead,” I mumble through the sack, unclear if he’s heard me. Either way, a second smack follows, this time on the other cheek.
“Just need to take some cord from the other sacks, hang on a moment, holy sister,” he says. I then feel him grab my left ankle, and the scratchy cord is fastened around it- tight, but not oppressively so. He then bends my leg back, until my heel is resting against my slightly sore rear end, and he ties the ankle cord around my thigh, lifting me up slightly to loop it. I can’t move that leg at all now, only wiggle my toes. I try to kick him with my free leg, but he catches my foot easily, and it soon experiences the same fate.
“What a beautiful sight,” he whistles, patting my calves. “With a sack over your face, you’re more modest than ever. So devoted.” His hands then begin to trace my thighs once again. “I wonder,” he continues, “if this is making you as horny as it’s making me.”
Damn him, why does he have this effect on me? Because, of course, I’m extremely aroused right now, knowing I’m at his mercy, and soon about to have his massive scimitar of a cock penetrating me. I squirm against the table, partly to free myself, but partly to try and grind myself against the hard surface and bring myself to a swifter orgasm. The built-up tension in my womanhood is unbearable, pressure already building, as if my body knows the week’s abstinence is immediately coming to an explosive end.
I then squirm for a third reason. A single finger from each of his hands has traced their way down my bare soles. Oh God, not that.
“Well now, ticklish feet? No surprise there,” he laughs. His fingers return, more numerous now, caressing my arches, insteps, heels. My sack-muffled laughter must still be loud enough to fill the room. I try to shout out threats, or pleas, but- and Mother Mary excuse my language- my feet are so damn ticklish.
“That’s it, pretty nun, laugh it up and let it aaaaall out, you can be silent tomorrow in mass.”
“I just want to come,” I moan through my shrieking cackles, my fingernails clawing helplessly against the sack. “No tickling.”
Perhaps he’s heard me; his hands spread my legs apart, leaving only the thin fabric of my undergarments to preserve my modesty.
“Damn, you’ve loving this aren’t you,” he exclaims, stroking the moist fabric and making me moan and attempt to writhe backwards against his fingers. I just want penetration, no more teasing. I feel the fabric, dragged away, the night-time kitchen air cool against my naked mound. Thibault spends the next few minutes massaging my outer lips, me grinding against his fingertips and moaning as I lubricate them with my unbearable wetness.
Thibault repositions me, and I gasp, my eyes practically rolling into my head as he enters me without comment. My body shakes, warm, throbbing pressure stretching me out, a pressure that rolls up my insides. Hail Mary, this is true divinity.
He slides out, then in, his length and girth leaving me in a constant state of euphoria. I’ll come first, that’s inevitable. I shudder, thinking delightful thoughts of how much he intensely I will climax, when he slows the pace, and says, “I need you to squirm more, this position isn't great for mobility.”
Untie this sack then you turnip, I think, trying as best as the binds will allow me to gyrate against his rock-hard manhood.
“Perhaps this will get you going,” he whispers. My toes clench as his fingers brush my soles which are practically pressed against his chest. Oh god, not again.
I buck against him, laughter spilling out of me once more as his stubby fingernails explore the recesses of my feet. I can’t move them, their whole ticklish surfaces utterly exposed to him as he continues to screw me. My body is so horny, but my feet are so sensitive, the two forces turning my brain to mush. I want to come, but I can’t help but laugh, especially as his fingers play with my toes, scratching between them and making me howl.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he exclaims, moaning loudly, “I’m going to blow soon, my promiscuous, ticklish little nun.”
I’m in sexual hell. The tickling is insufferable, and having discovered the weak spots around my toes, his fingers won’t leave there, drawing wave after wave of howling cackles from me, my hair stuck around my face inside the sack, fingers still clawing in desperation. Every so often, as he pushes further into me more, or thrusts at a new angle, open up fresh inner warmth inside me, the sexual pounding returns as the dominant force, my laughter subsiding enough as I feel my orgasm building and building, only for it to be snatched away as his fingers strike another unbearable ticklish spot around my toes, and I wail with renewed laughter as the orgasm ebbs just enough back from the brink to leave me with pounding tension between my legs, and breathless laughter coursing across the rest of my helpless body.
One of his hands ceases the tickling, and I recover just enough to feel the pulsing pressure return as the dominant force, my laughter giving way to renewed gasps of pleasure. I’m close, so close… I then scream out, as my briefly reprieved foot is met with hundreds of hard, scratchy bristles, each of which scratches with just enough pressure against the arches of my feet to make me scream with shrill laughter.
“Like this, do you,” he gasps. “Old potato scrubber, just within arm’s reach.”
I don’t care how he got it, I just want it to end. This is torture, my toes being scratched on one foot, the arch of my other essentially being licked by the tongue of Satan. Tears are streaming down my face as I laugh myself ever shy of the orgasm I desperately crave. Hell, I’m more likely to pee than climax at this point. My body starts shaking as the scrubber moves up to my toes. This is Hell, I’m dead, and this is my punishment.
“Oh god! Yes, yes!” Thibault cries out. He’s close, closer than I am, and yet his fingers still won’t stop. Please just stop, I think through the laughter, we’ll likely come together if you just stop.
“Gah!” he cries out after an aggressive thrust, with me feeling the distant, vague sensation of his warmth spreading. My turn, I think, giggling furiously as his fingers relent a little, returning to my insteps. Come on, my turn. So close…
There’s a loud, jarring bang, wood cracking against stone.
“What the…” Thibault mutters, pulling out from me just as I approach the critical point.
“You, farm boy, what on earth are you doing,” booms the loud, commanding voice of Monsignor Romero. “And is that a sister of the cloth? By St. Michael, there’s going to be Hell to pay for this.”
The sack is ripped away from me, and my frantic, wide-eyed, and dishevelled face looks up into the cold dark eyes of the Monseigneur.
“It was all her idea, she’s insatiable,” Thibault cries. He runs off, throwing the kitchen’s back door open and disappearing. Bastard. There’s no escape for me, however. I can’t run, or talk my way out of this.
“I think,” says the Monseigneur calmly, eyes tracing down my body, to my bare legs and tied ankles. “That such violations of the holy orders require a particularly strong form of discipline. Oh yes, the penance for this will be severe…”
***********************************************
If people want, there'll probably be a part 2 for this, likely even more sacrilegious. We'll see!
