I am a nun. I am a woman. I feel. I bleed. Underneath my coarse brown habit I burn with passion for my eternal lover, Jesus Christ, the man for whom I chose the life of bare walls, a hard narrow bed, the five o’clock rising bell, the cold chapel where i spend hours on my knees in adoration until the pain becomes unbearable. Every day I receive Him in the Eucharist, the wafer, the wine that through the words of the priest become His Most Precious Body and Blood. His Body is mine, all mine, as assuredly as if we lay in bed, husband and wife, sated with sex, me playfully plucking his gorgeous beard, He putting an arm around me drawing me close, his hirsute warmth making me glow.
The priest is configured to Christ, that the Church teaches, he is another Christ as he presides at the Eucharistic banquet. As I kneel at the altar rail he comes with the pyx, raises a host before me.
“The Body of Christ” he declares.
“Amen” I assent to my Lord and the priest places the blessed Host on my tongue.
He then offers me the chalice with the Precious Blood. I drink a drop, hand back the chalice which he cleans with the purifier.
On the days when I am blessed he lifts his vestments, takes out his penis, hard and throbbing, and says
“The Cock of Christ”
I lean forward, open my mouth wide and take this most gorgeous length into my mouth, I lick and suck, soon feel him stiffen and arch his back slightly as he ejaculates his warm, salty come into mu mouth. He withdraws as I swallow and allows the rest of his ejaculation to drip into the chalice. He lifts it up and says
“The Come of Christ.”
“Amen” I respond eagerly.
He offers me the chalice. I reach into the heavy folds of my habit and take out a clear glass phial. I kiss it and hold it up.
“The Blood of Woman.”
I open it, pour my blood into the chalice, shake it gently to mix the three fluids, then drink it, saving a little to rub on the priests’s still hard cock. I take it into my mouth again. I hold it there, lubricate with my saliva, suck to tighten my flesh soft mouth around it. He gasps with pleasure. I draw back, them push slowly forward until I have the full length inside me. He gasps again, I feel his body tighten. He relaxes as I move out, stiffens again as I move back in, faster this time, before repeating the movement. The third time he lets out a cry he can’t suppress, I know that this second orgasm is intense, really intense and he is struggling to ride the sensation. He ejaculates again and I cannot take it all in my mouth, it dribbles down my chin, stains my habit, the habit of my eternal devotion stained with the Most Precious Come of My Lord. I begin to cry.
In my cell. on the hard barrow bed, I want to relay the whole joyful scene, to masturbate as I do so. But I know must not, for masturbation is a mortal sin. I get into bed, turn out the light and lie on my front, clutching my rosary beads, reciting prayers as I grind against the rough monastic bedsheets. This too is a sin for which I will do penance, having abased myself in beautiful humiliation before Reverend Mother to make my confession. This, too. I offer up to my sweet Lord, this and everything.
As I drift away into sleep I can still taste the come, feel ot sticky on my chin, smell it. I say the Magnificat but am asleep as soon as I have said
“He has filled the hungry with good things.”
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here to see more wickedness.