Saga of Sonja
Registered User
- Joined
- Nov 25, 2023
- Messages
- 29
- Points
- 28
Continuation of P1: https://www.ticklingforum.com/threads/a-nuns-desperation-m-f.437899/#post-5674474
Upon rereading I think Sister Margot is basically just Margot Robbie lol
********************************************************************************
I squirm feebly at my binds as Monseigneur Romero beholds me in my state of wild-eyed helplessness. Somehow, inexplicably, being viewed like this, in such an open display of arousal, only contributes further to the pulsating lust between my legs, which now competes with the broader embarrassment of the situation.
“Should I untie her, Monseigneur?” asks a soft voice. Oh no. It’s Sister Margot, who peers at me from behind the Monseigneur’s dark robes. She’s one of my dorm sisters, and must have noticed me leaving. A few wisps of her long blonde hair peek out from her habit.
Monseigneur Romero pauses, heavy eyebrows furrowing like a vice. “Yes.”
Sister Margot hurries over, looming over me on her long legs. Her expression is remarkably neutral as she untangles the sack string binding my ankles to my wrists. I stretch out my legs, slightly numb from the prolonged semi-hogtie, before I sit up, and smooth my remaining clothes down in a vain attempt at maintaining dignity. Any efforts are, however, undermined by Thibault’s spilt seed running down my thighs.
“Follow,” says Romero curtly. With little other choice, I hop from the table, bare feet slapping the cold floor, and walk out of the kitchen, between the Monseigneur and Margot.
I’m let down several dark corridors, into the penance room. In previous centuries, the space was used for flagellation, and the walls still hold a viscous variety of barbed whips and masochistic devices. The heat between my legs starts fading, any lingering sensations of pleasure giving way to fear around upcoming pain.
“Fasten her to that cross, facing me,” Romero commands as we stop in the room’s center. He points to a large, heavy oak cross, once used as a centerpiece on feast days, now discarded after it snapped from the ground, causing it to form an X shape as it rests on the ground on two of its points.
Margot guides me to the vertical X frame, and grabbing nearby rope, tugs my arms up, securing my wrists to the structure. There are various groves caused by wear/time on the cross, which the rope settles into, giving little space for wiggling. Next Margot fastens my ankles. Having had my arms pulled above my head, and being short, I’m forced to stand on tiptoes.
“You have violated an inordinate number of holy vows this evening,” says the Monseigneur. He takes in my body, stretched, vulnerable, my torn robes not quite covering my exposed, still damp womanhood. “A nun who cannot control her… bestial urges… cannot remain in the order. Do you wish to remain here, sister?”
I gulp. My parents would murder me if I went home having been kicked from the convent, which was their final means of dealing with me. I nod, shifting uncomfortably on the cross. I sense Sister Margot also staring at my form. Even in the order she is pious. She’d never sneak off with delivery boys, let alone touch herself in the dorms under the cover of darkness. It's a waste in a way, for she is so beautiful- she has caught me staring at her several times in the washroom.
I snap out of my slight trance and away from the face of Sister Margot, illuminated by moonlight, and then nod to the Monseigneur.
“I see. I noted upon walking in on you during your… proclivities… that you are rather ticklish.”
My face reddens.
“Perhaps your lustful loins and sensitivity are connected,” Romero continues. “Rather than coerce you into chasteness with pain, we shall train you to resist your more sensual urges.”
As I fathom to work out what he means, the Monseigneur retracts a small knife from the folds of his robes, and steps forwards. With a grace that belies his stoic stature and aging appearing, he makes a series of swift cuts along my own robes. Around my armpits, shoulders, and neck, until my robes are barely intact, hanging on by a literal thread, which he then grabs.
“Open your mouth,” he says. I oblige, and the little cloth that keeps the modesty of my upper body intact is shoved into my mouth. The tattered remains of my clothes swing gently, resting on my breasts, but with my armpits and ribs now exposed.
“Take those discarded quills,” he says to Margot whilst pointing to a nearby writing desk. “Now, Sister Celine, we shall train you to ignore bodily sensations. Perhaps then you will think twice about giving in to your base urges.” He takes a pair of quills passed to him by Margot, then commands her to stand behind me with the remaining ones.
“Try not to react as myself and Sister Margot train you like the wild animal you are. Remember, a true devotee thinks only of God and of spiritual matters, and considers not the physical world.”
As I glance at the quills, taking in their stiff, feathery tips, and sharpened, inky ends, dread takes me. No no no, not that.
My body tenses as the feather tips are lowered towards my armpits. I shake my head as a desperate deterrent, as speaking would only cause the remnants of my robes to fall away and leave me essentially naked. But before the feathers wielded by Romero even touch my skin I grunt and am forced to hold back a squeak. Sister Margot has already made contact with her own feathers, the wispy ends trailing around the back of my legs and knees. I want to kick her away, but can only shift uncomfortably in my binds, trying and failing to ignore the soft tickly sensations.
My attempted neutral expression immediately folds into a grin as Romero’s feathers swirl into the stretched hollows of my armpits. The ends circle my taut skin, making me produce choked giggles.
“Sister Celine, you are not even trying to keep your mind from worldly sensations,” says Romero sternly, now flicking the feathers up and down. I try to speak a muffled protest, only to giggle harder as Margot speeds up her own assault, lightly dusting my inner thighs with her feathers. They both ignore my stifled protests, Margot taunting me even more as the feathers move up my legs. How can I ignore the physical world when my womanhood is so exposed, the skin not so far below it now being tantalized, making me already tingle between my legs.
The Monseigneur now switches course, keeping one feather in my left armpit, but moving the right down to my stretched-out ribs. It’s not my worst spot, but being tickled in two places at different heights on my upper-body only makes me squirm more.
Luckily Sister Margot then offers a brief reprieve to my thighs, moving the feathers back down to behind my knees. It’s insufferably, my teeth still clenched firmly on the strands of torn robes, and giggles barely suppressed, but I can hold. However, Margot then continues to move the feathers down further, along my calves, towards where my bare feet face her, my tiptoed position leaving all my absolute worst spots free to her to torment. The feather tips trace my heels, then my taut arches, making my shift on my toes, the grin on my face wild as sniggered laughter creeps from my mouth. I can’t hold this much longer.
Romero meanwhile keeps his assault varied- the feathers are back in the armpits one minute, then my neck and collarbone, making me shake my head and nearly cause the cloth to leave my breasts entirely. He does this all whilst staring, barely blinking at me, without a word, further highlighting my own tortured expressions.
Margot then switches the feathers in her hands, bringing the sharp, quill ends onto my soles. They scrape against the unbearable sensitive skin on my feet, as though they are parchment she is writing on. As she scribbles them against the base of my toes, I can hold out no longer, and burst out laughing. The strands of cloth in my mouth fall, and one swift second later I’m left, my habit aside, entirely naked, cackling helplessly in front of the Monseigneur, who takes in my bare breasts and stiff nipples, still struck by the arousal of my sack-antics with Thibault.
“I can’t take this,” I howl with laughter, all sense of modesty stripped away from me. “Not the toes! Monseigneur, please!”
He stands, mesmerized for a moment, the stroking of his feathers around my ribs melodic, whilst Margot keeps up her pace around my toes, slipping the quill end between each in turn and making my cackling grow even louder.
“Well, Sister,” Romero says after a while, his cold voice just audible over my laughter, “it seems you cannot keep your mind on spiritual matters, and based on your… bodily response, the sensations of the flesh have kept their hold over you.”
“I can’t help it, I’m so damned ticklish!” I manage to say, my feet itching to kick Margot away, but instead only wracking me with ticklish agony.
“Clearly. But that is not all I meant. I will give you one final chance. Resist any assault on your personhood, without giving in to your base urges, and perhaps we shall consider the matter closed. Sister Margot, if you please.”
The feathers leave my feet, only to return to my inner thighs, higher up than ever. My laughter subsides briefly, although not subdued entirety, as Margot explores new sensitive skin. The Monseigneur meanwhile uses his feathers to trail around my breasts, tickling me but also making me moan.
“Sister, please,” he chides, moving the feather ends to my nipples. Frenzied laughter is my only response. I can’t take the tickling around my thighs, and apparently my swollen nipples are also painfully ticklish.
The feathers on my thighs glide even higher. I know I must be wet already down there, but the situation isn’t improved as Margot caresses my outer lips with them, drawing a mix of loud moans and more desperate laughter. My whole body is ticklish, it seems, and Margot has now realized this, torturing my womanhood in a way that is electrifyingly ticklish but also making me try and grind down against the feather.
Monseigneur Romero then drops the feathers entirely, and briefly cradles my breasts in his hands, trailing his index fingers over my nipples, as though weighing up and inspecting fruit in the marketplace. I only half notice, laughing throatily as Margot continues tickling my labia, driving me wild with lust and with laughter. I never had her down as someone with such devious intent- always so pious, never away from her sisters where feral urges could take place. She caught me staring at her when changing a few times, although her returned looks didn’t indicate any sapphic thoughts of her own. Yet she knows her way around my womanhood, knowing every angle and level of pressure to get the greatest responses from me. I could climax soon, and she knows it, doing everything to keep me on edge. Does she want to help me avoid orgasming and failing this test, or does she just want to torment me and prolong this suffering?
I then buck wildly as Romero’s fingers rapidly attack my ribs and sides, making my breasts shake. His fingers then lightly tickle my nipples. This is unbearable. There’s fire in my loins, but laughter in my throat. My skin has become a prison- my soul might be within, but the tickling and teasing is without, and that is the side of my duality that has taken over. In this room there is no place for God, only frenzied laughter and the pressure between my legs that threatens to erupt at any point.
“There is only one way left to test if you can remain chaste,” Romero says. “You must resist the sensations of the male member, and keep reigns over your arousal.” The Monseigneur then undoes his belt, readjusts his robes, and stands there, his own erect member before me. I stare wide eyed, my arousal growing just at the mere sight, and the thought it might enter me. His shaft is less wide than Thibault's but the member is longer, and my loins burn at how far it could slide into me and the orgasm it might wrought. But I can’t, can I? Climax from this? I’ll be out of the order. But I’m so damn inflamed by my urges.
Still laughing from Margot torturing my lower lips, I cry out with a moan that is practically a scream as the Monseigneur enters me. I nearly climax on the spot, but retain just enough self control, even as I feel him push further and further up into my body. I’m practically seeing stars, my eyes wide as he keeps on going. Then retracts a few inches. Then pushes further in. I won’t last a minute at this rate.
Margot repositions the feathers, now at the swollen base of my womanhood, alternating between that stretched, hyper-ticklish spot of skin, and the inner thighs. Romero meanwhile has placed his hands on my hips, squeezing just above my hip bones as he thrusts into me. He’s struck another of my hellishly ticklish spots, and my head rolls back as I laugh loudly and endlessly, my heart pounding in line with the constant washing of sensations over me- fiery pressure building and building between my legs, so close to detonating, but then also the relentless tickling, making me squirm and inadvertently grind against Romero’s shaft, only making me more and more aroused.
Perhaps I can make him climax first. If he does, I’ll show him to be a hypocrite, and he’ll have to forgive me for my own trespasses. If I show that he’s- my thoughts are then cut off as Margot’s fingers finger their way to my feet, and I’m overtaken by renewed laughter as my two worst spots are hit at once. In the brief second of reprieve where she removes her hands to return them to my thighs, I gather my thoughts- make him orgasm first, give in to the flesh.
The thought is in vain. As Romero’s strong hands squeeze my hips once more I’m forced to jump back, sliding along his manhood and backdown in such a rapid movement that my orgasm gives way. The next few moments- I don’t know how long- are a heady blur of spreading warmth and pleasure gripping every crevice of my insights, whilst distant laughter- I think my own- sounds across the horizon. Maybe this is God, in the end.
The world comes back swiftly as the orgasm fades and Monseigneur Romero retracts from me. His manhood is still hard, a rod of iron that matches his brows. Only one of us has climaxed.
“Oh dear, sweet Sister Celine,” he tuts, shaking his head. “It seems you have failed.”
“Please,” I beg. “You can’t kick me out of this convent. There’s nowhere else for me to go.”
“Well,” he says slowly, stroking his chin. “Christ did preach forgiveness. Perhaps I will give you a further chance. Sister Margot, would you be willing to lend your assistance once again tomorrow?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she replies.
My womanhood shudders. Oh no, not more, not again…
Fin.
Upon rereading I think Sister Margot is basically just Margot Robbie lol
********************************************************************************
I squirm feebly at my binds as Monseigneur Romero beholds me in my state of wild-eyed helplessness. Somehow, inexplicably, being viewed like this, in such an open display of arousal, only contributes further to the pulsating lust between my legs, which now competes with the broader embarrassment of the situation.
“Should I untie her, Monseigneur?” asks a soft voice. Oh no. It’s Sister Margot, who peers at me from behind the Monseigneur’s dark robes. She’s one of my dorm sisters, and must have noticed me leaving. A few wisps of her long blonde hair peek out from her habit.
Monseigneur Romero pauses, heavy eyebrows furrowing like a vice. “Yes.”
Sister Margot hurries over, looming over me on her long legs. Her expression is remarkably neutral as she untangles the sack string binding my ankles to my wrists. I stretch out my legs, slightly numb from the prolonged semi-hogtie, before I sit up, and smooth my remaining clothes down in a vain attempt at maintaining dignity. Any efforts are, however, undermined by Thibault’s spilt seed running down my thighs.
“Follow,” says Romero curtly. With little other choice, I hop from the table, bare feet slapping the cold floor, and walk out of the kitchen, between the Monseigneur and Margot.
I’m let down several dark corridors, into the penance room. In previous centuries, the space was used for flagellation, and the walls still hold a viscous variety of barbed whips and masochistic devices. The heat between my legs starts fading, any lingering sensations of pleasure giving way to fear around upcoming pain.
“Fasten her to that cross, facing me,” Romero commands as we stop in the room’s center. He points to a large, heavy oak cross, once used as a centerpiece on feast days, now discarded after it snapped from the ground, causing it to form an X shape as it rests on the ground on two of its points.
Margot guides me to the vertical X frame, and grabbing nearby rope, tugs my arms up, securing my wrists to the structure. There are various groves caused by wear/time on the cross, which the rope settles into, giving little space for wiggling. Next Margot fastens my ankles. Having had my arms pulled above my head, and being short, I’m forced to stand on tiptoes.
“You have violated an inordinate number of holy vows this evening,” says the Monseigneur. He takes in my body, stretched, vulnerable, my torn robes not quite covering my exposed, still damp womanhood. “A nun who cannot control her… bestial urges… cannot remain in the order. Do you wish to remain here, sister?”
I gulp. My parents would murder me if I went home having been kicked from the convent, which was their final means of dealing with me. I nod, shifting uncomfortably on the cross. I sense Sister Margot also staring at my form. Even in the order she is pious. She’d never sneak off with delivery boys, let alone touch herself in the dorms under the cover of darkness. It's a waste in a way, for she is so beautiful- she has caught me staring at her several times in the washroom.
I snap out of my slight trance and away from the face of Sister Margot, illuminated by moonlight, and then nod to the Monseigneur.
“I see. I noted upon walking in on you during your… proclivities… that you are rather ticklish.”
My face reddens.
“Perhaps your lustful loins and sensitivity are connected,” Romero continues. “Rather than coerce you into chasteness with pain, we shall train you to resist your more sensual urges.”
As I fathom to work out what he means, the Monseigneur retracts a small knife from the folds of his robes, and steps forwards. With a grace that belies his stoic stature and aging appearing, he makes a series of swift cuts along my own robes. Around my armpits, shoulders, and neck, until my robes are barely intact, hanging on by a literal thread, which he then grabs.
“Open your mouth,” he says. I oblige, and the little cloth that keeps the modesty of my upper body intact is shoved into my mouth. The tattered remains of my clothes swing gently, resting on my breasts, but with my armpits and ribs now exposed.
“Take those discarded quills,” he says to Margot whilst pointing to a nearby writing desk. “Now, Sister Celine, we shall train you to ignore bodily sensations. Perhaps then you will think twice about giving in to your base urges.” He takes a pair of quills passed to him by Margot, then commands her to stand behind me with the remaining ones.
“Try not to react as myself and Sister Margot train you like the wild animal you are. Remember, a true devotee thinks only of God and of spiritual matters, and considers not the physical world.”
As I glance at the quills, taking in their stiff, feathery tips, and sharpened, inky ends, dread takes me. No no no, not that.
My body tenses as the feather tips are lowered towards my armpits. I shake my head as a desperate deterrent, as speaking would only cause the remnants of my robes to fall away and leave me essentially naked. But before the feathers wielded by Romero even touch my skin I grunt and am forced to hold back a squeak. Sister Margot has already made contact with her own feathers, the wispy ends trailing around the back of my legs and knees. I want to kick her away, but can only shift uncomfortably in my binds, trying and failing to ignore the soft tickly sensations.
My attempted neutral expression immediately folds into a grin as Romero’s feathers swirl into the stretched hollows of my armpits. The ends circle my taut skin, making me produce choked giggles.
“Sister Celine, you are not even trying to keep your mind from worldly sensations,” says Romero sternly, now flicking the feathers up and down. I try to speak a muffled protest, only to giggle harder as Margot speeds up her own assault, lightly dusting my inner thighs with her feathers. They both ignore my stifled protests, Margot taunting me even more as the feathers move up my legs. How can I ignore the physical world when my womanhood is so exposed, the skin not so far below it now being tantalized, making me already tingle between my legs.
The Monseigneur now switches course, keeping one feather in my left armpit, but moving the right down to my stretched-out ribs. It’s not my worst spot, but being tickled in two places at different heights on my upper-body only makes me squirm more.
Luckily Sister Margot then offers a brief reprieve to my thighs, moving the feathers back down to behind my knees. It’s insufferably, my teeth still clenched firmly on the strands of torn robes, and giggles barely suppressed, but I can hold. However, Margot then continues to move the feathers down further, along my calves, towards where my bare feet face her, my tiptoed position leaving all my absolute worst spots free to her to torment. The feather tips trace my heels, then my taut arches, making my shift on my toes, the grin on my face wild as sniggered laughter creeps from my mouth. I can’t hold this much longer.
Romero meanwhile keeps his assault varied- the feathers are back in the armpits one minute, then my neck and collarbone, making me shake my head and nearly cause the cloth to leave my breasts entirely. He does this all whilst staring, barely blinking at me, without a word, further highlighting my own tortured expressions.
Margot then switches the feathers in her hands, bringing the sharp, quill ends onto my soles. They scrape against the unbearable sensitive skin on my feet, as though they are parchment she is writing on. As she scribbles them against the base of my toes, I can hold out no longer, and burst out laughing. The strands of cloth in my mouth fall, and one swift second later I’m left, my habit aside, entirely naked, cackling helplessly in front of the Monseigneur, who takes in my bare breasts and stiff nipples, still struck by the arousal of my sack-antics with Thibault.
“I can’t take this,” I howl with laughter, all sense of modesty stripped away from me. “Not the toes! Monseigneur, please!”
He stands, mesmerized for a moment, the stroking of his feathers around my ribs melodic, whilst Margot keeps up her pace around my toes, slipping the quill end between each in turn and making my cackling grow even louder.
“Well, Sister,” Romero says after a while, his cold voice just audible over my laughter, “it seems you cannot keep your mind on spiritual matters, and based on your… bodily response, the sensations of the flesh have kept their hold over you.”
“I can’t help it, I’m so damned ticklish!” I manage to say, my feet itching to kick Margot away, but instead only wracking me with ticklish agony.
“Clearly. But that is not all I meant. I will give you one final chance. Resist any assault on your personhood, without giving in to your base urges, and perhaps we shall consider the matter closed. Sister Margot, if you please.”
The feathers leave my feet, only to return to my inner thighs, higher up than ever. My laughter subsides briefly, although not subdued entirety, as Margot explores new sensitive skin. The Monseigneur meanwhile uses his feathers to trail around my breasts, tickling me but also making me moan.
“Sister, please,” he chides, moving the feather ends to my nipples. Frenzied laughter is my only response. I can’t take the tickling around my thighs, and apparently my swollen nipples are also painfully ticklish.
The feathers on my thighs glide even higher. I know I must be wet already down there, but the situation isn’t improved as Margot caresses my outer lips with them, drawing a mix of loud moans and more desperate laughter. My whole body is ticklish, it seems, and Margot has now realized this, torturing my womanhood in a way that is electrifyingly ticklish but also making me try and grind down against the feather.
Monseigneur Romero then drops the feathers entirely, and briefly cradles my breasts in his hands, trailing his index fingers over my nipples, as though weighing up and inspecting fruit in the marketplace. I only half notice, laughing throatily as Margot continues tickling my labia, driving me wild with lust and with laughter. I never had her down as someone with such devious intent- always so pious, never away from her sisters where feral urges could take place. She caught me staring at her when changing a few times, although her returned looks didn’t indicate any sapphic thoughts of her own. Yet she knows her way around my womanhood, knowing every angle and level of pressure to get the greatest responses from me. I could climax soon, and she knows it, doing everything to keep me on edge. Does she want to help me avoid orgasming and failing this test, or does she just want to torment me and prolong this suffering?
I then buck wildly as Romero’s fingers rapidly attack my ribs and sides, making my breasts shake. His fingers then lightly tickle my nipples. This is unbearable. There’s fire in my loins, but laughter in my throat. My skin has become a prison- my soul might be within, but the tickling and teasing is without, and that is the side of my duality that has taken over. In this room there is no place for God, only frenzied laughter and the pressure between my legs that threatens to erupt at any point.
“There is only one way left to test if you can remain chaste,” Romero says. “You must resist the sensations of the male member, and keep reigns over your arousal.” The Monseigneur then undoes his belt, readjusts his robes, and stands there, his own erect member before me. I stare wide eyed, my arousal growing just at the mere sight, and the thought it might enter me. His shaft is less wide than Thibault's but the member is longer, and my loins burn at how far it could slide into me and the orgasm it might wrought. But I can’t, can I? Climax from this? I’ll be out of the order. But I’m so damn inflamed by my urges.
Still laughing from Margot torturing my lower lips, I cry out with a moan that is practically a scream as the Monseigneur enters me. I nearly climax on the spot, but retain just enough self control, even as I feel him push further and further up into my body. I’m practically seeing stars, my eyes wide as he keeps on going. Then retracts a few inches. Then pushes further in. I won’t last a minute at this rate.
Margot repositions the feathers, now at the swollen base of my womanhood, alternating between that stretched, hyper-ticklish spot of skin, and the inner thighs. Romero meanwhile has placed his hands on my hips, squeezing just above my hip bones as he thrusts into me. He’s struck another of my hellishly ticklish spots, and my head rolls back as I laugh loudly and endlessly, my heart pounding in line with the constant washing of sensations over me- fiery pressure building and building between my legs, so close to detonating, but then also the relentless tickling, making me squirm and inadvertently grind against Romero’s shaft, only making me more and more aroused.
Perhaps I can make him climax first. If he does, I’ll show him to be a hypocrite, and he’ll have to forgive me for my own trespasses. If I show that he’s- my thoughts are then cut off as Margot’s fingers finger their way to my feet, and I’m overtaken by renewed laughter as my two worst spots are hit at once. In the brief second of reprieve where she removes her hands to return them to my thighs, I gather my thoughts- make him orgasm first, give in to the flesh.
The thought is in vain. As Romero’s strong hands squeeze my hips once more I’m forced to jump back, sliding along his manhood and backdown in such a rapid movement that my orgasm gives way. The next few moments- I don’t know how long- are a heady blur of spreading warmth and pleasure gripping every crevice of my insights, whilst distant laughter- I think my own- sounds across the horizon. Maybe this is God, in the end.
The world comes back swiftly as the orgasm fades and Monseigneur Romero retracts from me. His manhood is still hard, a rod of iron that matches his brows. Only one of us has climaxed.
“Oh dear, sweet Sister Celine,” he tuts, shaking his head. “It seems you have failed.”
“Please,” I beg. “You can’t kick me out of this convent. There’s nowhere else for me to go.”
“Well,” he says slowly, stroking his chin. “Christ did preach forgiveness. Perhaps I will give you a further chance. Sister Margot, would you be willing to lend your assistance once again tomorrow?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she replies.
My womanhood shudders. Oh no, not more, not again…
Fin.
Last edited:
