Epilogue
The Very Girthy Epic-logue: Adieu
SISTER BELINA
This room is the one where the priests usually host me. After that first time, when Fr Rafe and Fr Callum came into my room at the convent and took my body for their pleasure and mine, I’ve always come here, to the seminary.
They kept their word. They reported back on my admirable chastity levels to Mother Superior, and last month I entered my year-long novitiate. As a novice, I’ve earned the title of Sister, though I know my time with these men in the dead of night makes a mockery of my efforts in the daylight hours.
This room may be the usual one, but there’s something different about tonight.
The large, low daybed in the middle of the room is, as usual, covered with black sheets, but that’s where the similarities end.
The room’s lit only by hundreds of candles this evening.
A sultry take on Gregorian chanting plays, its beat darkly hypnotic.
The priests—I count six—seem on edge. Incense hangs heavy in the air.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask the one nearest to me. I don’t know their names. Here, at the seminary, they don’t share their names. But they all know my name.
Belina.
They love to say my name, to grit it out when they’re teasing me, and ravaging my body, and coaxing me to celestial heights.
He smiles knowingly as he steps in front of me and begins unbuttoning my modest nightgown. ‘Word about your beauty and your appetites is spreading far and wide. The bishop is coming to see you tonight.’
My eyes widen. The priest’s smile turns rueful.
‘He wants you all to himself later. He’s a man of particular tastes—and excellent tastes, if I may say so.
We’re to get you ready.’ He stoops in front of me, taking the hem of my nightgown and lifting it up, up.
I hold my arms over my head and he pulls it off me with the flourish of someone unveiling a priceless painting.
I stand there in the midst of all these hungry, fully dressed men, stark naked and utterly exposed, allowing my shame and anticipation and vulnerability to course through me, to work their magic as they tighten my nipples and moisten my pussy and send goosebumps scattering over my cool skin.
It always starts like this. With the promise that the evening will bring uncertainty. Surprise. The need for courage, for faith. And pleasure. Always pleasure. For everyone.
But tonight, I suspect, will take each of those constituent parts to new heights.
‘Do what you like with me,’ I say, both to drive them wild and to ratchet up my own desire. This is what I live for. These nights that are as profane, as carnal as my days are sacred. Contemplative.
‘Get her on the bed,’ one of them says behind me. ‘His Grace wants her oiled up and ready to blow.’
I could climax here and now from the delicious potency of that threat alone, but I’m being manhandled backwards and down, strong arms gripping my shoulders and firm hands supporting my head, until I’m lying on the low daybed.
The bed that, from experience, is exactly the right height for taking one priest in my mouth while I brace myself on all fours and another takes me, in turn, from behind.
My legs are gently tugged till they’re spread out wide; my arms are spreadeagled. My hair is fanned out with reverence. I lie there, already a helpless mixture of pliant and squirmingly excited. Every part of these sessions is so exquisite, but this may just be my favourite part of all.
The waiting.
Sometimes, they tie me up in various positions, but not tonight.
Tonight, someone begins to brush my hair from root to tip with a brush whose soft bristles make my scalp tingle pleasantly and drag roughly against the sheets as it works through my lengths.
I watch from my prone position, in my dreamily passive state, as the men standing around me pass a bottle of oil between them, pouring the liquid into their palms and rubbing their hands together.
They’re all so handsome. So formal, in their all-black garb and their dog collars, their smart trousers failing to conceal the sight of their arousal. I feel a pang of sympathy that they’ll be returning to their beds tonight with their fists—or each other—for company.
Tonight I have a more important man to please.
They crouch, and the massage begins. I’m not blindfolded tonight, so I can enjoy the overwhelming sight that is six men working my body.
Two get to work on my feet and legs, two on my hands and arms. One man towers over me from behind, his strong fingers flexing around my neck and over my shoulders.
I hope he won’t make me wait too long before they trail to my breasts and pluck at my painfully stiff nipples.
And the sixth priest? He’s kneeling at the end of the daybed, right between my legs, staring at my exposed pussy like it’s supper as he smooths confident palms over my stomach, down my hips and under my bottom.
There’s naked desire on his face, on all their faces, and it’s only a small mercy to know they’re suffering the same as me.
I let my eyelids flutter closed as the men keep me in this limbo for Lord knows how long. More oil is poured on me. Assured hands smooth it slickly over my skin before massaging it in. And the cycle repeats itself.
* * *
I’m in heaven and in hell. I’m floating and drowning.
The music has me lured into a kind of stupor with its mesmeric beat, and my body is on a knife-edge.
Nobody is touching me where I need to be touched, and yet I’m so aroused I could explode at any moment.
My nipples and my entire sex are throbbing. Pulsing.
Hands trace the undersides of my breasts before circling agonisingly close to my nipples.
They drag along the creases where my bottom meets my thighs, but avoid my pussy.
Strong thumbs knead my palms. My forearms. My insteps.
My thighs. Sharp, pained intakes of breath from these men tell me their loyalty and obedience to the bishop is testing their limits, and I’m conscious that my own whimpered moans and whispered pleas are joining the chorus.
And then: ’It’s time,’ one of them says, and my eyes snap open.
The guy behind me cradles my head and slips on a silk sleep mask, and my world goes dark.
The hands halt, but don’t leave me, and I’m aware of the door opening, and footsteps hitting the hard floor, and a gust of cool air that wafts cruelly over my exposed pussy.
‘Keep going,’ a low voice commands. The culture and power in his tone are unmistakable, and I shiver. ‘I want to see how fuckable she looks when she’s coming apart. Make sure you keep her arms and legs like that, too.’
There’s a murmured chorus of yes, Your Grace, and I hold my breath.
They start to move their hands over my body again, just like they were doing before the bishop entered. His mere presence, the commanding timbre of his voice, and the fact that the blessed man has ordered his priests to tip me over the edge has my heart rate ratcheting up.
Then they touch me. Properly. Oh my God.
My nipples are rolled and pinched and coaxed into peaks so impossibly stiff they may actually snap off.
Fingers trail teasingly over the thin skin of my breasts before kneading them so hard I cry out.
My cries are rewarded with deep pulls at my nipples, and I try to arch my back, but the men massaging my legs and arms have me essentially restrained on the bed in my spreadeagled position.
I love it. I love it. The experience of being overpowered and overwhelmed, with hands everywhere, roaming and exploring. Caressing.
‘Touch her pussy,’ the bishop orders in that intoxicating voice of his, and I hope with all my heart that he isn’t just a voyeur, that he’s planning on taking over at some point and claiming me, of making me so unequivocally his that I’ll be ruined for life. His loyal servant forever.
The priest at my feet swipes a couple of fingers once through my flesh, and it’s enough to make me attempt to lift off the bed once again. Searing heat floods through me.
‘Don’t give her too much,’ the bishop says. ‘I want to hear that pretty mouth begging before I flip her over and fuck it.’
Oh God oh God oh God. A deluge of moisture is flooding me between my legs. I’m so wet, so wanton, that I should be begging these men to show mercy and leave me to my modesty, but I, in fact, want quite the opposite.
I want them to use me, and plunder me, and wring me out, and then I want the bishop to make me his limp, pliant little plaything and fuck me over and over again.
My clit is tickled agonisingly lightly with—what was that? A feather? Whatever it is, it’s torture. My entire body is about to explode. I swallow the mouthful of saliva I’ve accumulated and I start to beg.
‘Please. Please, Your Grace, have mercy on me. I can’t bear it, I can’t—’
‘She begs so sweetly,’ he says in a derisive voice that has tears of humiliation and frustration pricking my eyes at the same time as my shameless pussy leaks a little more. ‘Give her your fingers. See how many she can take.’
And then one, two fingers are being pushed inside of me, but because I’m so drenched I take them easily.
A third is added, strong and thick, and it stings like hell, but the pressure against my inner walls is so filling, so satisfying, that I push into the man’s hand and take whatever sensation he’s bestowing.
My nipples are still being plucked, pinched, and all my other body parts are being beautifully smoothed and petted and attended to, and the stimulation is divine, it’s divine, but I still need—
‘Such a good little nun,’ the bishop says. ‘Look how well her pussy takes your fingers, Father. I think she’s earned an orgasm. You can finish her off.’
I gasp, bracing my body for the onslaught it surely won’t survive. If I don’t feel human flesh against my clit in the next second, I will pass out.