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Ooo...The Marquise van de Meeren gives her son Jack to the Mother Superior for 4 or 5 weeks while she gave concerts in the main cities of Europe, being a famous concert pianist. She tells Mother Superior that her Jack has to be jerked off three times every morning in the shower to make him squirt and then she can fuck the jerker once or twice because that's how she taught him and she herself jerks off and fucks him every morning. The Mother Superior, who receives a large check for this, summons Sister Celeste and explains to her what the Marquise wants for her son Jack. Sister Celeste crosses herself because son and mother are having incestuous sex, but she promises the Mother Superior that she will arrange everything to her satisfaction. Jack and his mom, the Marquise, nod in agreement: Deal!
Sister Celeste came with lowered eyes and folded hands, as was proper, and stood next to the Mother Superior, while the Marquise's carriage was still standing on the gravel outside. She listened to the matron's instructions — every morning, in the shower, three times to squirt, then fuck once or twice — and her first thought was a pious, a chaste one: a boy who can unload three times in the morning toilet and then mate with her, like an animal in a stable. Well, yes. The flesh is weak.
Then she raised her eyes, looked at Jack — how he stood there, half boy, half something else, with this indifferent matter-of-factness on his face — and something inside her shifted. Three times. To ejaculate. And she jerks him off — his own mother! Three times! And then the boy gets to fuck his own Mama two or three times! Two or even three times! Incest, Saint Joseph, incest under the roof of the Holy Church!
She quickly crossed her shoulder three times, as if that would defuse the matter. It didn't defuse anything. Because while her lips were forming "In the name of the father," she was already thinking: And what does Sister Celeste do when the boy squirts in the morning? She stands there. She watches. She sees his cock stiffen and twitch, and no one notices the tugging in her own cunt. Her gaze fell briefly, just a heartbeat, on Jack's crotch. Three times. Once or twice. That's more intercourse in the morning than in some marriages all day Sunday.
The Mother Superior couldn’t have cared less that the Marquise spoke of incest. The old woman was as hardened as an old stewing hen; she might — just maybe — raise an eyebrow at a murder or a confession of one, but that was about it. The Marquise jerked off her boy three times every morning — for Christ’s sake, what was the big deal? And as for the son fucking his own mother — once, twice, or however many times — so what? A good 95% of her novices and nuns had a history involving incest, herself included. The Mother Superior grinned, revealing her crooked, snaggle-toothed smile. She thought Celeste ought to stop acting so foolish; given that fat check, a little bit of hand-jobbing and letting the boy fuck her without complaint was surely a small price to pay. Damn right! She fixed her gaze on the sister, who kept crossing herself over and over again. For God’s sake, she needed to stop being so narrow-minded! The Mother Superior knew everything about Celeste’s sex life in the convent — she knew about her nightly clitoral masturbation, and about Sister Carmen — a real slut, that one — licking her clit. She also knew that, almost every morning, Carmen would give Celeste’s pussy a proper thrashing with a whip, finishing it off by fucking her to orgasm with the phallus-shaped end of the whip’s handle. No, Celeste was exactly the right person for this job. She just needed to stop acting so clumsy about it!
The Mother Superior expected an answer, and Celeste forced the pious side of her forward, folded her hands tighter, and said it: "Yes, Mother Superior. I will arrange everything to your satisfaction."
As soon as I said that, the pig downstairs spoke up again. Arrange. How do you arrange that, please? In the morning, naked, in the shower hall, with the hose in one hand and the boy in the other — the cock or the towel, I don't even know which to reach for first.
Jack and the Marquise nodded in agreement. Deal.
Celeste quickly lowered her eyes again, before anyone could see that in her head there was just a naked boy standing under lukewarm water, and that she, Sister Celeste, had already counted three times in her head — and was no longer pious the fourth time.
Celeste leads him down the hallway in the first twilight, her hands piously folded again, as if she could anticipate the nakedness that was about to come. "It's actually called Flagellarium," she said quietly, "because this is where the sisters who desire whipping sexually or who need to be punished sexually are whipped."
She opened the door and Jack stood there — rooted to the spot, as if nailed to the ground.
A naked nun sat on a stool, legs spread wide, her head thrown back. Kneeling before her was a naked nun, her face buried between the first one’s thighs, her lips pressed directly against the other's cunt. A third sister stood nearby — also naked, a whip in her fist — bringing it down in a steady rhythm upon the back and labia of the kneeling woman. The blows were not brutal, yet firm enough that with each strike, the woman being punished would lurch forward, her lips leaning toward the other’s cunt — though never quite reaching it. With every lash, her lower back and tormented cunt would twitch. Once, twice, ten dozen times. Then, the one wielding the whip reached down casually, took the handle — a leather, penis-shaped handle — and rammed it into the kneeling woman’s cunt from behind, fucking her then relentlessly. Meanwhile, the nun who fucked the woman being punished hard with the penis-shaped shaft, and the woman being whipped erupted in a single, long, sustained cry — a sound that hovered, unable to decide between holy agony and sexual ecstasy.
Celeste had already seen it all, she herself was held down almost daily by Sister Agnes and whipped by Sister Carmen, these two sows whipped and fucked Celeste as penance for her nightly clit-masturbation. A hundred times. She knew exactly what it sounded like, what it smelled like. And yet — she felt her gaze shift to the side, to Jack, who was watching, mouth agape. Jack saw for the first time a nun being fucked to shame by two others with the penis-shaped handle of a whip. 'And I already know what the boy has now', she thought. He got a stiff cock as sure as there is.
She looked. He had. His chunky cock stood erect, dark, heavy.
Holy Virgin! The boy stands here like a stallion in the stable and I'm supposed to shower him, to jerk him off, and to fuck him. Jesus Christ!!
The row of showers was opposite, open, without a curtain, as is usual in monasteries, where shame in front of sisters is supposedly not necessary. There they stood, seven or eight naked sisters, water on their shoulders and breasts, gossiping until Celeste came in with the naked boy. Then their eyes opened wide. Hands that were just holding the soap sank. Water was running, nipples were standing, and eight heads turned as if on command to the one big erect cock walking through their shower house.
Celeste knew she was playing a role now, whether she wanted to or not. So she did what sisters do: she washed the boy, from head to toe, with soap, with water, with neat movements. Neck. Armpits. Breast. Back. Arms, fingers, between the fingers. Butt, top, bottom, and she felt her fingers trembling as she moved down the back and back up the front.
She just didn't go around the tail. She didn't dare go around the cock yet.
"What we discussed in front of the Mother Superior," she said, louder than necessary so that the others heard it and she believed it herself, "it's all nonsense. I'm certainly not going to jerk you off, I'm a chaste nun after all. And fucking isn't available either, you cheeky little thing." She wiped a drop off his shoulder as if that was the whole deal. "It's best if you jerk yourself off, or I’ll ask the nuns opposite if they want to jerk you off."
There I said it, she thought. Chaste nun. Jerking off is not available. Fucking is not available. I just talked myself out of it.
And under the fine speech: But when I jerk him off myself, then here in front of the others is my finger on his cock, and everyone sees that I can do it, and everyone sees that I like it, and then the questions come, and then there's no going back. Better another one. Better not me.
Jack swallowed. It was a bitter blow, you could see it — the boy had expected more. He murmured, half defiantly, half meekly, that she should then ask one of the other nuns to jerk him off.
Celeste gasped. Good. Very good. Nobody looks at me.
So she went over and asked Sister Agnes. The old woman had been in the monastery for a long time, broad, strong, with red hands from soap and work, and not one that adorned for long. She came over, looked the boy up and down, said dryly that it was a neat little job and that she could jerk him off three times if she had to.
Celeste stood next to her.
And sank in shame.
Not because it was something forbidden. But because it was the most natural thing in the world: a naked old nun kneeling next to the boy, wrapping one hand around his cock, holding his bottom with the other like one would hold a calf, and then calmly and evenly began to jerk his cock off. Not squeamish, not pious. Dry, matter-of-fact, three times with great effort until it squirted out of the boy, the first time quickly, the second time harder, the third time with a moan that rang through the entire shower house.
Celeste stood there, water running down her face, and she couldn't see anything else. She heard the sisters across the showers whispering. She heard Agnes say: "So, boy, jerked off three times, as ordered." And she heard, very quietly, within herself, her own voice, which was no longer pious:
Three times. From old Agnes. From the old woman! And I, the chaste nun, didn't touch the boy just around his cock. And next time, next time — when I'm the one holding him — what do I do then, holy virgin, what do I do then?
Jack said, "Sister Celeste, look, you've totally messed up your habit!" She looked down. It was true. The water and the soap had soaked through the heavy material up to her knees, and the bottom hem hung soaking wet and dark on her legs. "Tomorrow you'll take off your clothes like everyone else here and wash me naked," said Jack, "you'll hang your robe or habit on a hook like the others do. You'd be pretty stupid to keep your robe on while showering me and mess it up."
Celeste nodded because it sounded very sensible. Of course, she usually showered naked like everyone else. Of course that was the only right solution. And of course, she thought as she nodded, it's exactly the solution I was just trying to avoid.
She said, "Okay, we can try it tomorrow. But you have to promise to keep your hands to yourself. I'm a chaste, asexual nun, young man! No groping, no touchy-touchy!"
Jack nodded and promised never, ever to touch her.
Celeste said it loudly so she could hear it. Chaste. Asexual. It's all there. Everything has been discussed. Everything is secured.
And underneath, without her being able to control it: naked. Tomorrow. Morning. Me naked in front of the boy, with soap, water, and a cock that squirted three times with old Agnes. And he keeps the pens with him — which means I have to touch his cock. Which means I have to go directly on the cock! Which means I have my hands on him and my eyes on him and no cowl in between. Lord, if this doesn't go wrong.
She forced her thoughts back and pulled herself together. There was the second thing.
He dressed and she accompanied him to his sparse cell. Cold light, a cot, a chair, a cross. She folded her hands.
"So, now the second problem comes up, Jack. The fucking. Well, definitely not with me, because of being a nun and all. But if you absolutely have to fuck — I could ask one of the novices. They haven't taken a vow of chastity in the first four years like I have. What do you think?"
Jack nodded, smiling in anticipation. "Oh yes, a young and pretty novice to fuck, you would do your job well, Sister Celeste."
Celeste nodded, scurried out, and it was only minutes before she returned with a young girl in her hand.
Rosie.
She introduced the two of them to each other. And Jack noticed as he looked at her — slender, round face, short-cropped hair under her novice hood — that Rosi was deaf and dumb. Maybe fifteen, definitely not sixteen. And Celeste insisted rigidly that Rosi was already eighteen, almost nineteen.
Why do I say this? Celeste asked herself as she spoke, calmly, firmly, as if it were official. Why do I emphasize her age as if I have to sell her? Why am I introducing the girl here like a thing to be delivered? And why, holy virgin, why do I feel like I'm being tested all the time — whether I'd rather give the boy to Rosi or whether I want him.
She watched as Rosi and Jack looked at each other. Rosi didn't know where to put her hands. Neither does Jack, but for a different reason. Celeste, the nun who wanted nothing to do with it, stood by and thought:
I said, definitely not with me. I said it twice, today. First in the shower, then here. And every time I say it, it sounds less like conviction and more like wishful thinking.
To Celeste's amazement, Jack raised his hands and began to sign. And Rosi's face lit up like a candle. She answered with her fingers, quickly, animatedly, and Jack laughed back, and Celeste stood by, not understanding a single movement from this quick little conversation. What are they talking about? What does he tell her? Why is she blushing? Why doesn't she blush with shame, but blush with joy?
Gently and slowly, Jack began to undress Rosi. He didn't do it greedily, but neatly, one piece at a time, and Rosi let it happen without being embarrassed, raised her arms where necessary and even helped a little. Then they sat naked next to each other on the cot, the hunchbacked little boy and the deaf-mute girl, and continued their conversation with their hands.
Jack questioned her impudently. Celeste wouldn't have done it any other way, but she never asked so directly. Rosi said — with her fingers, with her eyes, with her whole face — that she was already over fifteen and had been fucking her dad, her uncles and her nephews at home for two years; it was common for them. No, she hadn't minded. Her older sister had to do the same. Unfortunately there are no men here in the monastery, so she has to jerk off with her finger every night, but that is not the same as fucking.
No, Celeste thought, that's not it. That's not it at all. And her fist was already on her lap, even though she hadn't noticed it yet.
Jack talked back about how things were going with him and his mom. Celeste listened — now it is, now comes the incest, now let's see how the girl reacts to it — and Rosi didn't bat an eyelid. Incest or not, that was beyond her ass. Celeste was almost outraged. Out of your ass? I crossed myself because of it! And the little one sits here and doesn't even flinch!
Then Rosi asked if it was true that Celeste had brought her here to fuck. Jack confirmed, but only if you want it yourself — he's not a rapist.
Then Rosi turned to him, kissed his cheek, and spoke with her hands, and Jack didn't translate it for Celeste, but she still understood enough: You look a little slanted with your hump, but your cock looks great, enough to bite into. Come on, let's fuck, I'm really keen on it!
Celeste hardly understood a word of it. Just this much: that the two of them obviously got along and smiled at the same time, that Rosi even gave Jack a kiss on the cheek as if she had known him for years.
And Celeste remained seated on the stool, pressed her fist into her crotch — right where her cunt and clit were anatomically — and forced a neutral expression on her face.
Neutral. Stay neutral. You are the supervisor. You are only here to fulfill the orders of the Marquise and the Mother Superior.
Jack laid Rosi out on the cot, calmly, matter-of-factly, as if he had done it a hundred times before, and the hunchbacked, short boy knelt between her bare thighs. Rosi's knees fell apart. She waited, without impatience, with shining eyes.
And Celeste saw his cock — which she had avoided this morning, which she had not dared to go around, which old Agnes had made squirt three times — attached to Rosi's cunt.
Jack's cock slid in slowly and gently.
Celeste let out a sigh, "Oh my God!"
And she heard herself, and she was immediately ashamed of the sound, and she pressed her fist even tighter into her lap, and something screamed inside her:
Oh my god, look at that. Look at that. That's how it works. So that's how it works. And I'm sitting here on my stool like an old prayer sister, pressing my fist between my legs because otherwise I would scream. Chaste, asexual nun. Yes Yes Yes. Look at her. Look at him. The way he pushes his cock in, the way she closes her eyes. And the whole room suddenly smells like meat, and I haven't added anything to it, nothing at all, and yet I'm tingling like a young thing. Lord, help. Or don't help. Doesn't matter. I'll just keep watching.
Jack fucked Rosi slowly and carefully, with long, calm strokes, the way you calm an animal before riding it. Celeste's fist on her lap acted innocent, lying there as if by chance, as if discarded. But in reality, she was rubbing her clit through the fabric with her knuckles, just as she did naked in her cell every night when everything was quiet and the cross was in the dark. And she hid it very cleverly. I'm just sitting there. I'm just watching. My hand rests. Nothing more.
Nothing more.
But Rosi, she fucked very actively. She didn't lie there like a piece of driftwood, she hugged Jack's thin back and the strange hump, she held on to him as if she might fall, and she responded beautifully to his rhythm. They found each other in seconds. 'In sync,' Celeste would have thought if she had known the word. Rosi's face glowed with lust. The boy had found her G-spot immediately, right at the first approach, like a dowsing rod, and now he was driving the girl up the hill, step by step, thrust by thrust, and he would send her falling over the cliff into her orgasm in a few minutes.
Rosi croaked in her deaf-mute voice, rough, broken, like a sound that wasn't practiced: "Jack, I'm already very close!"
And Jack redoubled his efforts.
Meanwhile, Celeste's fist had done its own work. Without her noticing, the pressure had increased, gathered, pulled on a single small spot under her ankle — and tipped. She, Celeste, had just had an orgasm, silently, without a sound, on a stool, with her fist in her lap, while two naked young people fucked in front of her. Now the orgasm passed in her, seeped away, became cool, and she strained to look over it so as not to miss anything.
Does anyone here believe that? she thought. Does anyone think I just came? No. None. Because I'm hiding it. Because no one should see it. Lord, what kind of person am I?
Oh yes — and Jack's cock was a real beating. He kept widening Rosi's fuck hole, pushed it open, let it give in and close again, and Rosi clung to him with her inner walls like a drowning woman clutching the rope. Her whole body twitched, heaved, trembled, arms, thighs, stomach, everything moved, everything worked towards one point.
Celeste saw juice being squeezed out of Rosi's fuck hole, white and foamy, and running down her ass cheeks. And then, finally, Jack squirted with all his might into Rosi's pussy hole. Celeste saw it clearly. She saw Jack's scrotum bouncing up and down, in time with the pump itself, and she saw Rosi jerk her head back and say something in her croaky voice that couldn't be understood but was very well interpreted.
Yes, Celeste thought as she stared. Now he injects his juice into Rosi. Just like my dad had injected it into me.
And her own body was shaking.
And the shaking didn't stop when Jack stopped. It continued to run, rippling through her, as if Jack had fucked her and not Rosi. As if it had been her fuck hole that he had just left open, her clit that his cock had touched, her stomach into which the juice was now spurting, only through the air, only through the distance to her stool.
Shut up, Celeste, she told herself. You are the supervisor. You are only here to fulfill the Marquise's mission. What you feel here is nothing special. Every nun has what you feel here. What you feel here —
And then her eyes fell on Jack's cock, which was slowly slipping out of Rosi, still shiny, still half-stiff, and on Rosi, who didn't want to close her legs yet, and on the small puddle between her thighs.
"It's nothing," she finished her thought. Absolutely nothing.
And pressed his fist again, very firmly, against her lap.
Jack fished two joints out of his backpack and lit them, one for himself, one for Rosi. And they smoked, and the sweet smoke soon hung under the low ceiling, and Celeste, who had never tasted one before, just inhaled it through her nose, and her head felt a little light, without having lifted a finger.
The two seemed to have forgotten her. Rosi's face shone in the holy smoke, half in the dim light, half in the candlelight, and she kissed Jack's cheek again and again, casually, as if it were a breath. And they spoke in sign language again.
Rosi said — her hands were quick, her face was lively — that she had never had an orgasm with either her dad or her uncles. With them she had just laid there and endured it, and then masturbated alone in her room at night in order to have something at all. But there was a nephew, Leo, the lion, who also had a cock like Jack, and she regularly had her orgasms from him. That's the only reason she loved her nephew.
That's where she gets it. In which. Like Jack. A beating too, she said. Celeste looked at the cot. So there is, this kind of cock. Several. And I really saw her for the first time today. All right, I've seen it before, but — oh well. Not in action.
Jack nodded and answered with his hands.
"Mom always rubbed my cock," he said loudly because it was easier, "and when I was seven, almost eight, she made me squirt. She had bought an ointment from an herbal witch, rubbed it on my cock three times a day, and so it became a meat cock. Big and thick. Because of the witch. For mom."
Rosi grinned and gestured back that Leo also had a meaty cock like that, and it never went limp like the others — it remained at least semi-rigid, and they fucked one after the other so often that Leo's back hurt.
Jack grinned. "Mom didn't do it without ulterior motives," he said blatantly as Celeste listened. "Now she had a son with a magnificent cock, a meat cock, and she enjoyed being fucked twice in the morning and then several times in the evening when dad was away or was already deeply asleep."
Celeste tried in vain to decipher the sign conversation. She only picked up scraps, and the scraps were suspicious. Tail. spanking. Meat cock. Fuck. Twice in the morning. Several times in the evening. When daddy sleeps deeply. With a vocabulary like that, you don't need any other words. She waited for a word about the nun. It didn't come. Apparently it was no longer there for the two of them.
Good, she thought. Very good. Then I can let myself be observed undisturbed. Er — observe undisturbed. I mean, observe undisturbed that they are not watching me. Doesn't matter.
And as she sat there, the other thing came back to her. Jack's cock. She had seen him in action — in the shower room, stiff and heavy, and just inside Rosi, pushing it in and squirting the juice into it. And now, in the smoke, with the slight pressure in her head, in the warm cell, with the two naked men on the cot, her body wanted to feel him inside her too. Very easy. In itself. And get pushed. And have that moment that Rosi had just had.
And then the internal police officer spoke up.
And? she said. And? What are you imagining? You are a nun. You are chaste. You are asexual. You said it three times today, three times, so you mean it. So what do you want with his cock inside you?
First of all, Celeste answered internally, I only said it twice and wasn't entirely convinced the third time. Second —
Second! The policewoman raised her voice. Secondly, you sat on the stool earlier and rubbed your clit through the fabric until you came, and that's probably the nastiest thing that can happen to a nun while she's supervising. And thirdly, you want to be fucked now, you pig.
Fourthly, Celeste added defiantly, and she didn't know where she got the courage from, fourthly, I want it from that hunchbacked little guy over there, just like he did it to Rosi. Twice in the morning and several times in the evening, like he did with his mom.
She pushed her fist back into her lap. And she said nothing, and no one saw it. But her mind was now on two things at the same time: the bright, warm smoke that wafted through the cell — and a beating, a meat cock that she now knew very well what it looked like, how it felt, how it worked.
And she still hadn't said a word to either of them.
And now Jack dived. He sat down between Rosi's thighs, buried his face in her lap, took the whole cunt into his mouth, and his tongue danced polka on the clit of the completely surprised but laughing Rosi. At first Rosi laughed, giggled, croaked, and then the giggles became shorter and shorter, whistling more and more, and then stopped.
A hot feeling ran down Celeste's spine. She knew that. She knew it exactly, that path, the mouth, the clit, the orgasm. Because Sister Carmen, the hot-tempered Spanish woman, sometimes used to dive between her thighs, in the shower room or in reading class or wherever it was convenient, and lick Celeste's clit to orgasm. And the other nuns who were present nodded thoughtfully and enviously: "Yes, yes, Carmen. That's a brave pig, the pig is licking the Celeste here in front of all of us."
Brave pig. Celeste had never liked the term. She was the quiet one, the sedate one, the demure one, the one who was licked by another. And if Carmen does it, then it's still halfway okay. Because Carmen is it. Because she has the reputation, she can do it. But if I were to do it — if I, Celeste, were to put my tongue on someone, a boy at that, a naked little boy — then I would suddenly be such a brave pig myself. And then I couldn't say anymore, it's Carmen, that's how she is.
And then I would have to admit that it is me. A pig. One with clit and pussy and everything.
In these moments, in the seconds of sadness after Carmen's licked orgasm — and Celeste knew these seconds only too well — Celeste wanted to sink into the ground.
It wasn't lust that made her sink. The pleasure was beautiful, it was easy. It was the second after that. The post-coital sadness. When the body was still shaking and the head was already cold and began to calculate. Then she heard the others nod: "Carmen, the brave pig," and she knew that she herself wasn't even included in the sentence, as a person. It appeared as a place. As a stain. Than the place where Carmen had her tongue. As the clit that Carmen licks. And then she sat upright, neatly, and nodded along, as if she wasn't the person affected, but someone who happened to be sitting next to them.
Before she went to the monastery, Celeste had a girlfriend. Her name was Marie and she was six months older. They lived two yards apart, they were the same age and the same level of boredom, and they took turns sleeping next to each other once a week, as children do in the country. Sometimes in Marie's bed, sometimes in Celeste's bed. The mothers thought they were friends. The fathers thought it would be safe because two girls together can't do any harm.
The fathers were wrong.
It started with a tickle. Marie was ticklish, Celeste was too, and in the evening in bed they started tickling each other, under the armpits, on the stomach, on the knees. And at some point one of Marie's hands slipped a little too far up between Celeste's legs while she was tickling, and Celeste made a sound that Marie had never heard her make before.
Marie paused.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Do it again."
And Marie did it again, and Celeste made the sound again, and then they stopped tickling, but Marie just left her hand there, and then she went a little further, and then she touched the clit, completely by chance, completely without a plan. And Celeste, who at eleven already knew what her clit was and what you could do with it, but not that you could let another hand touch it, lay very still and allowed it.
It was the first contact with a second person who was not a man.
It's not like daddy. With dad, it's a process. For Marie it's a tickling sensation. Marie tickles me down there where dad pushes his Schniedelwutz in, and it tickles, and it's not strenuous, and it's not official, and Marie waits. Marie just waits until I tell her to go ahead. And I say: keep going.
That night Marie did it right.
She pushed the blanket away, she pushed Celeste's nightgown up to her armpits, and then she lay down next to it, on her side, her head propped up, and looked. She looked Celeste up and down, the way men did, but with a different face. Not greedy. Curious. Researching. With a small, narrow grin at the corner of her mouth, which was not yet a woman's smile, but no longer a child's smile either.
Then she grabbed it.
Not with a finger, but with the palm of your hand. She put her whole hand on Celeste's cunt, like one puts one's hand on a warm stone, and kept it there, and then she began to rub. Not at one point, but over the entire crack, with the heel of the hand, with the entire length of the hand, in a quiet, long, even stroke that started somewhere at the top and ended somewhere at the bottom and came up again.
Celeste held her breath.
I've never done it like that before. I always do it selectively. Always on the clit, always immediately, always hard. Marie does it like a long line, from top to bottom, and the clit is in the middle of it, and it is taken along without it being the only one. And that is completely different. And that's quite good. And the whole time I thought I knew how to do it.
Marie took her hand away after a while and looked at Celeste.
"Show me how you do it," she said.
And Celeste, who had never shown anyone how she jerked off, raised her hand and showed her. Just as she would show it to Jack later, she showed it to Marie first. Showed where the fingers are, in what rhythm, with how much pressure, at what speed, where it stops, where it pulls, where you shouldn't stop. Marie watched, and then she placed her hand on Celeste's hand and let herself be guided until she knew Celeste's routine.
Now she knows. Now Marie knows how I do it. Now she can do it to me like I do it to myself. And that's good because then it's no longer she who does something with me, but it's mine who just guides her. And Marie is not the dad. Marie is not the schoolboy. Marie doesn't do what she wants. Marie does what I want.
And Marie did it. Following Celeste's instructions. And Celeste came for the first time in her life in the presence of another human being. Not alone in bed. Not in hiding. But in front of Marie. And Marie watched as Celeste twitched, and Marie smiled, and Marie said when Celeste was finished, "Aha. So that's what it looks like."
Then they swapped.
Celeste laid Marie down. She pushed her nightgown up. She looked. Marie was softer than her, had little hair, had breasts that made Marie squeak a little when you touched them, and she already had the first down on her pussy between her legs. Celeste looked for a long time. It was the first time she had seen a pussy up close that wasn't her own in the pocket mirror. She felt her, with one finger, with two fingers, on the labia, on the fold, on top of the clit, on the little point that was smaller than hers and that lay under the foreskin like a pearl that wanted to hide shamefully. Marie had never really jerked her clit before.
And then, all of a sudden, out of an instinct she couldn't explain, Celeste did something she'd never done before.
She dove head down and licked Marie's clit.
Marie jumped up like a fish.
"What are you doing?" she croaked.
"I don't know," Celeste said, her mouth already down again.
And Marie let herself lie down again and let it happen, and Celeste licked. First at the crack, with the flat tongue, like a kitten drinks from a bowl. Then at the top of the clit, with the tip of the tongue, in time, always at the same point, always with the same pressure, again and again.
Marie twitches. Marie twitches under my tongue. Marie twitches like me when I do it with my hand. But she twitches under my mouth, my tongue, and that's something completely different. That's — that's my mouth in her pussy. My mouth. And I'm thirteen, and I've already fucked a lot of men, and I've never been in a mouth. And yet Marie lies here and twitches beneath me, and her pussy twitches, and her hips twitches, and she holds my head with both hands as if she couldn't let me go.
Marie came. With a small, short, surprised cry, like a girl who has just discovered that her own body is capable of more than expected. And when she was done, she pulled Celeste up and looked at her, for a long time, with a face Celeste didn't recognize. Not girlfriend. Not comrade. Something third, incomprehensible.
And then Marie said:
"Now me."
And she dove down.
Celeste had an experience she would never forget. A girl between her legs. A tongue on her clit that wasn't her own. A mouth that did what her mouth would have done, only with a different tongue, with a different pressure, with a rhythm that wasn't hers and that hit her in such a way that she almost came up twice and almost screamed once and then, on the third attempt, came, really, long, in waves, with tears in her eyes.
And Marie carried on, as one carries on when one has just experienced it and knows how good it is. She didn't let up. She held the clit between her lips and licked while Celeste was still twitching, and Celeste twitched again, again, and Marie licked, and Celeste screamed, really loud this time, and Marie kept licking, and Celeste brought her knees together, and Marie forced them open with her hand, and kept licking until Celeste fell completely distraught against the pillows and lay there panting, pulling up the covers and closing her eyes.
That was it. That's it. That's what a mouth does. Not the dad. Not the mayor. Not the surgeon. A mouth. A girl's mouth. And it's so much different. It is soft, and it is tender, and it has time, and it wants nothing. It doesn't want anything from me. Marie doesn't want anything from me. Marie lies down there and licks me and doesn't want anything, she doesn't want to finish, she doesn't want to go, she doesn't want it to stop. She wants me to feel it. Just that. And I feel it. And I feel it more strongly than ever before.
From that evening onwards there was no girl's room without it.
They did it every week. And soon it won't just be every week anymore.
It became a habit, and it grew more and more. They did it in the crib, they did it in the hay, they did it behind the shed, they did it in the woods, they did it in the laundry room when the mothers were out. And it became more and more daring, more and more long, more and more piggish. Marie wanted to try it with a candle one day, and then Celeste was lying there with her legs spread and Marie pushed the candle into her, slowly, carefully, and Celeste felt something inside her for the first time that wasn't a cock, but just a round, smooth, warm thing, and it didn't hurt, and it didn't hurt, and it didn't hurt.
That's it. Something warm, smooth that pushes inside and doesn't pump around. Not like these guys. Like a hand that is just visiting and doesn't want anything. And I now realize that there is a feeling inside me that doesn't hurt. Only men hurt. Not things. And Marie and the candle don't hurt. And I still don't know what it all means. But I noticed it.
And Marie also wanted Celeste to do it to her with the candle, and Celeste did it, and they pushed the candle into each other's cunts, and they took turns licking each other, and they rubbed each other with the palm of their hand, with their fingers, with the back of their hands. They lay on top of each other and rubbed their clits against each other until they both came at once, in a single, shared spasm that surprised them both and made them both giggle, and then they lay there, wet and sweaty and happy, and Marie said:
"If only these guys knew."
And Celeste said:
"You don't know."
No. They don't know. The guys don't know. They come, they take us, they go. And they don't know what the two of us are doing here. That's our thing. Our girl thing. And if the men knew that we lick each other until we scream, they would wonder why they were needed at all. And then maybe they would try to join in. And then things would get complicated. So we don't tell them.
And they didn't tell them.
And it went on like that for two years. Until Marie, at sixteen, married a man from the neighboring village who knew nothing about her and who would one day ask her why she was so good at it. And Marie would say: "I was married early on." And she wouldn't say with whom.
And Celeste came to the monastery at seventeen. And in the convent there was Sister Carmen, the hot-tempered Spanish woman, who started licking her just like Marie had done. And Celeste immediately recognized what was happening and allowed it to happen without being surprised. Because she knew what it was like. Because she knew it from Marie.
Carmen licks me. Carmen is not Marie. Carmen is a nun and a pig. But Carmen licks just like Marie, at the top of the clit, with the tip of her tongue, in exactly the right rhythm. And all the other sisters say: "Yes, yes, Carmen, she's a brave pig." And none of them know that Carmen is just doing what Marie did years ago. And none of them know that I, Celeste, the chaste, the asexual, the chaste, have known for years what it's like to be licked by a girl. And that if no one sees it, someone could do it too. And if I were to do it to Carmen, then everyone would say: "Celeste? She's doing it to Carmen? But Celeste is otherwise so reserved." And then suddenly I would no longer be a nun. Then I would be someone who licks. A pig like Carmen or old Agnes, that is.
And that's why Celeste kept quiet for seven years. Because she knew how good clit licking was, and because she knew that a nun who was good at it would be a very different nun. One with a clit and mouth and fingers and everything. One that would have to be classified into a subject, and she didn't know which one.
She could have classified herself as "girl who fucked Marie" and then as "nun who jerks off at night" and then as "nun who gets licked by Carmen" and then as — well, then what?
Carmen was the heat that came in where the other sisters were coolness. A Spanish woman, tall, dark eyes, red lips, hands that grabbed hold where others only dabbed. She turned the retreat into an animal enclosure and made herself the mistress of it. And her favorite object was me.
She licked me in front of the other sisters. Not in a corner, not in the dark — but quite openly, in the middle of the day, in the refectory, on the bench next to the wall, or in the washroom where the others were wringing out the sheets. She pushed my habit up, knelt down, and licked. Wild, unabashed, with tongue and lips as if that were her real devotion. The sisters stood around, looking, whispering, giggling, and Carmen didn't look up, didn't let herself be disturbed. She licked until I collapsed into her hands. She called it "El castigo con la lengua" or "La penitencia con la lengua". The punishment, the penance with the tongue.
And I — I never touched her. Not a single finger. Never. She licked me and I lay there and let it happen because I was the object she had chosen. I never licked her back. I never stroked her breast. Just accepted.
And when she was finished, she sat up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looked at me — and then she dragged me into the flagellatorium.
It was cool there, semi-dark, it smelled of sweat, leather and dust. She had me kneel down, leaning against a low trestle, with my habit folded over my hips. And she whipped me. Not your back. The cunt. She slapped her rod — thin, supple, braided leather — on my clit and labia, stroke after stroke, slowly, in rhythm. The pain burned and glowed and soon became so hot that it was about to explode, close to climax, close to, any moment before I came — and then she stopped.
Almost anyway.
Because when I was ready, trembling on the edge, she took the handle of her whip. It was made of leather, firm, thick, smooth, made in the shape of a large penis — a tool that the nuns showed each other like a miracle. She pushed it into my pussy, slowly, very deep, and fucked me with it. With her hand on the whip handle, Carmen fucked me much harder and more forcefully than any man in my sinful past. Her face contorted with exertion, she fucked me so forcefully, so powerfully, until the penance collapsed in an orgasm that I didn't hear coming, but had to come, it screamed so loudly.
And that was the punishment for my nightly masturbation on the clit. Penance for every night I spent jerking myself off just to be able to breathe. The more nights, the more blows, the deeper the grip. Carmen called this “having the master under control.”
I never admitted it. Never. Not in front of the sisters, not in front of Carmen, not in front of myself. I just held still and waited for her to come get me. And hoped that she would come for me. And every time she left me standing after the last push and left, I remained lying on the box, my face buried in the leather in shame, and knew: tomorrow she will come back and make me repent like an avalanche.
And so now I'm sitting again, she thought, while Jack danced the polka with his tongue on Rosi's clit and Rosi kicked into space with her heels. That's exactly how I'm sitting now. On the stool. With legs pinched together. And right when it's over, that second comes again, and then again the desire to sink into the ground.
She looked over at the two. Rosi's stomach rose and fell, her hands were on Jack's head, her eyes were wide open yet turned inward.
And this time, Celeste thought, it's not even Carmen who's doing it. This time it's a boy. A small, hunchbacked, naked boy, with his face between the legs of a deaf-mute girl. And the girl is younger than me. And both of them are more naked than me. And they both have more sex a day than I have in a decade. And if that's all the case — and it is — then I don't know what I am anymore. Nun? Yes. Chaste? Hmm. Asexual? Ha!
Sow? Perhaps.
And in the chest, where the pious side sat, and in the cunt, where it still resonated, it became quiet and restless at the same time.
The little girl, Rosi, was in the middle of an orgasm when Jack slid up and his cock slid all by itself into her fuck hole — into that twitching, heaving, trembling fuck hole of the fifteen year old. He didn't have to aim, he just found it, like a key in a lock that was already open for him. Rosi clasped his crooked back and hump again, held him tight, clung to him like she had done before, and they both fucked so wonderfully, so lost in each other, that Celeste's cunt burned like fire.
All she could do was press her fist into her crotch and rub her clit through the rough material with her knuckles. Unobtrusive. Discreet. Just like a nun does, who does nothing but supervise.
But the two of them were so engrossed in fucking that Celeste could have been singing or yodeling and the two of them wouldn't have noticed. She could have sung a psalm. She could have been waving a censer. Nothing. No reaction. So Celeste remained silent, no song or yodel, just her tight mouth and her shallow breathing as her knuckles obediently rubbed her clit.
Bravo, Celeste. Very subtle. Very nun-like. If anyone came in, they would see a sedate sister sitting on a stool watching two young people having sex. And no one would suspect that this sedate sister is working her own clit with her knuckles and masturbating. Keep it up. Just your teeth together. And don't stop. And above all, don't be loud.
Rosi now took much longer than Jack. They fucked and fucked endlessly. Celeste had long since lost control of her rhythm — she was no longer rubbing, she was being rubbed, or it was the same thing, she didn't know anymore. Rosi reared up. Her back arched up from the cot, her heels braced, her hands clawed at Jack's back, and she screamed it out in her rough, croaking deaf-mute voice, long, hoarse, drawn out.
Jack also reared up a tenth of a second later.
His cock flopped out of the fuck hole and his semen sprayed in wide, white jets over Rosi's pussy and stomach. Not in this time — out, over her, on top of her, like a fountain that can no longer hold the fountain.
Celeste came at the same moment.
Her body bucked, and this time she couldn't contain it any longer. Not the legs, not the back, not the mouth, not the trembling. And then came the insane orgasm at the sight of Jack's cheekily spurting cock — standing there, the semen squirting in an arc over Rosi's stomach, the boy panting, the girl underneath, and everything was steaming, everything was alive, everything was naked and warm and real.
That was too much.
Celeste silently prayed a prayer: Lord, forgive me for earthly lust — and grant me it. Just that. Nothing more. Forgive and grant. Both, if possible. And if only one works, then treat yourself. Then grant rather than forgive. No — forgive too. Forgive first. And then grant, Lord. That's it.
No, that's all she wanted from the Lord.
And then she sat again. Upright. Hands in lap, fist this time. Mouth closed. Eyes wide open. And in her, beneath everything that still trembled, was the quiet, frightened, almost joyful shock:
What just happened to me here? And why was it so beautiful? And why was it the most beautiful thing that has happened to me in a long time? And why didn't I think of Carmen? And why was Rosi the girl and Jack the boy, and I was there, and it was me, and I was still completely by myself?
Lord, let me think about it some more. But not for too long. Otherwise it will be pious and cool again.
All three were silent.
Jack and Rosi smoked another joint. And Celeste, who sat next to her and did nothing but breathe in, felt dizzy from the holy smoke. She had never smoked. Of course no grass either. Never a cigarette, never a pipe, never anything other than monastery air and incense. And now this sweet, heavy, warm smoke was wafting into her head, and she felt light, and the cell became soft at the edges, and the ceiling came a little closer, and she didn't know whether that was the cell or her head.
Lord, she thought, if that's the Holy Smoke, then I wonder what the Unholy One is doing. Probably exactly the same. Probably more of it. Probably —
I sat on the stool while Jack fucked Rosi. That was my job that evening — supervision, because a sister had to be there when a novice let a stranger into the cell, and because the Mother Superior didn't want it to happen in private. So I sat there, with my habit pulled over my knees, my hands in my lap, and watched as the little hunchback walked over Rosi and pushed her heels into his back and cursed and laughed in Gypsy German and said "harder, you, crucifix again!" said and "yes, there, right there!"
And while I watched, I jerked myself off. Very, very secretly. Not with my hand — it was in my lap, visible, civilized. But with the knuckle, under the coarse material of the habit, pressed up and down on the clit, slowly, in the same rhythm with which Jack thrust into Rosi. From the outside it looked as if I was just the supervisor with my hands folded obediently. From the inside, I was third in bed.
When they were done, they flopped down on the cot and Jack pulled a small tin can out of his backpack and rolled two joints and lit one and handed it to Rosi, and Rosi sucked on it and gave it back, and so it went back and forth. "Celeste," Jack said, holding the joint out to me. "You too."
"I've never smoked before," I said.
"Then now."
The holy smoke. That's what Jack called it, and he was right. I puffed on it as one puffs on a pipe and first choked, and then I let it sink into my lungs as I was shown, and then there it was. First a scratch in the throat, then warm, then quiet, then a wave that rose to the head and made everything a little softer. The cell grew larger. The voices slowed down. My legs became light. I was floating, somehow, incomprehensibly, on this stool, with my feet in the air that no longer existed.
And then I spoke.
I had never spoken. Not with the sisters, not with Carmen, not with Jack all these days. But now I sat there, light and floating, and just said it, the way you open a window because it's stuffy.
"The Mother Superior," I said, "the former one. Not the current one. The former one, the greedy one. She rented me out."
Jack stopped pulling. Rosi turned her head.
"Four years," I said. "The whole four novice years. A car came and I was washed and dressed, and then I drove to a house, and then there was a high-ranking gentleman, and then I lay there, he fucked me, and then I drove back. Mostly two or three times a week. Always at night, always in the car."
"To whom," said Jack. Not curious, but like a notary.
"Bishops," I said. "Abbots. A papal nuncio, twice, a fat man with rings on all his fingers. Other wealthy holy men. Canons, provosts, once a vicar general. All with money. All with an appetite. All with the one thing on their minds that they couldn't get in their houses because their women's club presidents sit there counting money."
"And the Mother Superior," said Rosi, "collected the money."
"Every week. Clinking coin. She called it a mass stipend. A stipend for every night, and I was the mass." I laughed, for the first time that evening, and the laughter seemed strange to me because it wasn't the laughter of a sister. "And when I came back, she didn't even ask me how it was. She just counted the money."
"And you," Jack said. "You were lying there."
"I was lying there," I said. "For four years. For four years I lay there and they lay on me and I did to myself what one does: counting. How many thrusts. How many minutes. Whether they started in the breasts or in the pussy. Whether they kissed me or not. Whether they said good night afterwards."
"Goodnight," Jack said.
"Good night," I said. And then I said the sentence that I hadn't come up with myself, but that Jack had given me days ago, during our first conversation. "My pussy was just a knothole in driftwood."
Rosi snorted. Jack remained quiet and said, "Who said that?"
"You said that."
"And who felt it?"
"I." I just said it like that, drunk, without shame, without the lids and the wrinkles and the choir prayer. "Four years. A hole in a piece of wood floating in the water, and all the men who pass by put something in it because it's convenient. No pity. No thank you. Just the cart that takes me there and brings me back, and the gold coins that Mother Superior puts in the drawer."
Then there was a moment of silence. Rosi took a drag on the joint and handed it back to me, and I took it again, and this time I didn't cough anymore. I was still floating, but different — no longer light, but carried. Carried by two people who listened without calculating. Without judging.
And I realized that for the first time in my life I had said something without thinking about it first. No pros and cons. No messing around. Simply put. The four years, in one go, like one breath. That was the holy smoke. Or it was Jack and Rosi. Or it was both, and both were the same.
"Come on," Jack said after a while. "Sit with us. Not on the stool. On the cot. You're no longer a supervisor."
And I stood up, floating, and sat between them, and it was the first time in four years that I sat next to two people who hadn't paid for me. Jack and Rosi's hands slid under my habit, stroking and caressing my naked body, my bare skin, my full breasts and my pussy, of course. They petted me because they loved me. It can be that easy with holy smoke.
Then it was Rosi's turn. She didn't say anything, she just sat up straight, pulled the blanket up to her armpits and started talking with her hands. In gestures. How she did it when German was too slow for her, or when she wanted to say something that was too difficult to say in words. Jack adjusted himself on the cot, watched her, and translated.
"So," Jack said. "She says: the current Mother Superior. The one with the face like a carp." All three of us grinned. Carp, that was spot on.
Rosi continued to sign, quickly, with both hands, with her fingers, with her shoulders.
"Two or three times a week," Jack translated. "Hundreds of times last year. And just as many times before last year. Not the old one that Celeste rented out. The new one. Rosi hooked her up too. To the same gentlemen. To bishops, abbots, canons, the nuncio, the vicar general, the provosts. High gentlemen, all of them."
Rosi interrupted, tapped her forehead with the back of her hand and made a gesture that meant: not always the same.
"Not always for money," Jack said. "Sometimes for favors. Once she got the sacristy tax waived for the bishop. Once she got a carriage for the monastery for three weeks, with a coachman and two horses. Once she got a carpenter who re-laid the sacristy for free. For the whole winter."
Rosi nodded vigorously, continued to sign, and now she grinned, and Jack grinned too when he read it.
"And," said Jack, "she says: sometimes the Mother Superior put herself into it. So not as a mediator. But as a participant. She says: the Mother Superior went to bed with her. Not with her, but with the Lord, and Rosi lay there and watched with a grin. As an ornament. As a warm-up. As proof that it is an honest transaction."
Rosi made a gesture like: so, and then another like: and so on, and then she pointed to her own clit and then to her cunt and then to Celeste, as if she were comparing.
"She says," said Jack, "so you're not the only one. She says: you're just the one with the more years. She says: four years on business, and with her three or four nights a week on business, but no more. She says: there's nothing in between. No love, no wages, no nothing. Just the car, the door, the bed, the ride back."
Rosie nodded. Then she made a sign with her thumb across her throat: No more. Completed. Ticked off.
And I understood what she was giving me. Not pity. Not comfort. But a second one in my situation. A girl from the country, with a bit of Yiddish-Gypsy German, with uncles and cousins and grandfathers behind her, and still the same prey for the same men. Only with one difference: Rosi took it in a sporty way. "Oh," she once said, "it's like peeling potatoes." And she had said it in such a way that people had believed her.
“And you,” I said to Rosi. "Did it hurt you?"
Rosi looked at Jack, Jack looked at Rosi, and then she signed something short and Jack translated:
"She says: the third bishop. He had a stomach like a barrel and she thought she was dying. He fell on her with all his weight and wouldn't let her up. She says: she thought she wouldn't be able to get out anymore and started counting the cows in her head until it was over."
Rosi nodded and made a movement with the palm of her hand like: pushed away.
"She says," said Jack, "that was the worst. But otherwise: everything sporty. And she says: the bishops are better in bed than the farmers, because they don't have to work in bed. She says: a farmer has to work in the day, he also wants to work in bed, and then he works twice. A bishop doesn't work in the day, he can work in bed, and then he works beautifully."
Rosi grinned, Jack grinned, and I noticed that I was grinning too, for the second time that evening.
Two stories that were the same thing. The old Mother Superior and the new one. The scholarships and the favors. The four years and the four nights. And both from girls who hadn't been asked anything. Only: one of them lay down as an ornament, and the other counted the cows until it was over. And now both of them were sitting on a cot in a monastery cell, smoking a joint that a little hunchback had rolled, and laughing at things that not a single sermon laughed about.
Then Rosi made a gesture that I didn't recognize, and Jack laughed loudly and said, "She says, and now she wants to know if you only ever jerk off on your knuckle when you're supervised. She says she saw it."
And I blushed, under the nurse's uniform, intoxicated, on the cot, between two very lovely people, and said nothing.
And that was the answer.
The old mother superior was called Adelgund. Almost no one knew that anymore because for twenty years she had only been called "Mother Superior" and because she herself had ensured that the name disappeared. Adelgund came from a merchant family, three brothers, all in the cloth trade, and she was the only one who was sent to the monastery because she didn't want to get married and because the dowry should be saved. At sixteen she had already had men — first her father, then all three brothers and also her father's accountant, in the office, at nineteen, behind a bale of Kenyan wool. At 22 she became a novice and dutifully fucked all the holy gentlemen, at 26 she took her vows,
And she kept the taste. Not the thing itself — the men. The business with men. Adelgund was not one to be content with choir prayer. She was someone who did calculations. And when she was elected superior at forty, she had already discovered what a monastery earns most quickly: not in hosts, not in candles, but in the novices, in the girls who had no families to ask about them.
Her first "rental" was a nun, a young, pretty one from a good family. A canon had seen her in the nuns' gallery, at high mass, and asked if she could be sent to his city apartment to visit the sick. And Adelgund understood. The sick visit lasted one night. There was a gift. There was an envelope. And then never again had any doubts as to whether this was the right path. It was him.
She rented me out for four years. Two or three times a week, by car, at night, to bishops, abbots, provosts, the nuncio, the vicar general. “Mass scholarship,” she called it because it sounded pious. She had received a stipend for every night, in hard cash, and she hadn't had to keep a single night of it for herself — that was the rule of her order. The money flowed into the monastery. And the monastery let them do it. Because she had the numbers. Because she wrote the numbers beautifully. Because no one else wanted to read the numbers.
And if she was happy with me, she never said it. If she was unhappy, she said it out loud. Once a bishop had complained that I had been too passive, and Adelgund had put me in the refectory for two days without food and said: "Learn to work with your hips, otherwise I will sell you to the Carmelites." I learned to work with my hips.
When she died in her bed at fifty-eight of a fever, her estate contained a booklet with names and numbers. There was a number next to each name, and sometimes there was a word next to the number. The nuncio said: "big, fight, pay well, double." One canon said: "gentle, sick, complains a lot." The vicar general only said: “briefly.” And for me it said: "Celeste, four years, no complaints, always brings gold."
And the new one was called Irmgard. The Carp Nun. Forty-three, from a family of civil servants, with a face that had started to wrinkle early and with the voice of someone who had started giving instructions early. Irmgard was not a businesswoman like Adelgund. Irmgard was someone who wanted to enjoy. She had had her first husband at twenty-six — her confessor — and was still hungry at forty because she had learned about it late and never had enough of it.
When she was elected superior, she had not done the math like Adelgund. She had a different view of the nuns. She looked at them the way men looked at her. And she saw what Adelgund had not seen: that the rental could not only bring in money, but also for herself.
She set Rosi up three times. Not always for money. Once for the sacristy tax, once for a carriage, once for the sacristy carpenter. And with one of them — with the bishop, the one with the ring on all his fingers — she went to bed with her. Not to work. To be. To feel what it was like to lie next to a girl while a man worked her over. Rosi saw it. Rosi counted the cows. Rosi said: "Oh, it's like peeling potatoes."
And I knew the two of them one after the other. One sold me and didn't ask. The other sold me the same way and added herself. One wrote numbers, the other sought additional carnal pleasure. Both were superior. Both were men's wives in their own way. Both knew more about my flesh than I did. And one had the notebook in which my name was written, and the other read the notebook when she came and wrote next to my name: "useful, silent, doesn't count."
She stood up.
Probably because otherwise she would have continued to think.
She picked up Rosi's underwear from the chair and began to dress the girl. She did it slowly, even though it would have been quick, and she did it thoroughly, even though there were only a few parts. And oh, how fine the girl's flawless skin felt! The shoulders, the arms, the collarbone, the side. Celeste pulled the shirt over her, smoothed the material, smoothed out a wrinkle that wasn't there. She put her underwear on, felt her cunt and clit with her fingertips, and then she had Rosi lift her feet like you do with a child, and Rosi let it happen to her, beaming and looking at Celeste as if Celeste were her sister.
Celeste fully dressed Rosi. No button remained open.
And her hands didn't really want to leave the girl.
You fucked her, she thought, even though it was Jack, not her. All right, you put them on. You touched her. You felt that skin. And this skin is fifteen. Or eighteen. As I say. In any case, this skin is happy.
Jack said: "Goodbye, Rosi, see you tomorrow!"
And Celeste let the girl go.
Rosi turned around again in the doorway, raised her hand, made a gesture — Celeste didn't know what, but it was friendly, it was warm, it was addressed to both of them — and then she went out and you could hear her steps running down the hallway, dancing lightly, quickly, almost skipping.
The girl beamed from ear to ear as if she had just seen the Lord Jesus walking across the Sea of Galilee.
Celeste's eyes filled with tears.
Not because of Jack. Not about fucking. But because of that face. This happy, open, warm child's face that had just screamed with joy and was now running skipping down the aisle, knowing that tomorrow would come again. A day when there will be good fucking again. A day when the boy is there. A day when you can be happy without it hurting.
That was sublime and holy. Really.
So that's it, Celeste thought, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand, quickly so Jack wouldn't notice. So that's what it's like when a girl is happy. This is what it looks like. And I knelt in church every day for two years and thanked God for giving people joy — but I didn't know what joy looked like. With a human. With a Rosi. With a girl who has just been fucked and screamed and is now dancing and jumping.
Lord, you showed me something today. Maybe you showed me too much. Maybe not.
She turned to Jack and her voice was firm again, that of a supervisory nurse again, just a shade warmer than usual.
"So," she said. "We would have."
Jack had dressed and put his textbooks on the table because he had to study now. Although he was still in his high school year, he was already in his second semester at the university. He was so gifted that an exception was made for him. And Jack wanted to aim high. He studied rocketry and wanted to do a Ph.D. immediately after completing his studies. in your pocket, start at NASA. He had some groundbreaking ideas regarding rocket engines, combined ion-photon engines, and the like. Little Jack was sure that those at NASA would be amazed.
Celeste held the handle in her hand. But she wanted to say something else.
What am I saying? What am I saying? I already have the word bird in my head, but not yet in my mouth. And now he's sitting there with his books like he's a student, and I'm standing here with a handle and a clit that's still glowing, and I'm about to say something I never say.
She stuttered a little. "Jack, I saw for the first time today what beautiful, loving fucking is."
birds. There it is. Out. The word is out.
"It touched me, because you did something good for Rosi, not like...." She interrupted, otherwise she would have blabbered. Not like mine. Not like me, she wanted to say, and if she had said like me, then Jack would have asked, and then she would have had to answer, and then she would have had to admit to herself that she had been fucked before, somewhere, at some point, and that it wasn't nice at all. She swallowed it.
"For the first time I saw fucking the way nature and God actually planned it, with us little men and women. Beautiful and loving, not ugly and hideous, like... it sometimes is."
Jack nodded. That came from deep within Celeste's soul, you could hear it. He nodded seriously, not politely.
She continued: "And tomorrow, I will do as you said. I will take off my habit and then wash you, and..." She paused. Further. Further. Say it. Say it completely. You've already come this far, now you're getting past the final stage.
"And then maybe the old Agnes will come back to jerk off and squirt because I've never done it before."
Now it was out. The truth. She stood at the back, the truth, and looked out of it like a small child through a crack in the door. I, Sister Celeste, a nun for seven years, chaste, asexual, have never held a cock in my hand and jerked off to make it squirt. Not once. Until this morning I didn't even know exactly how to do it.
Jack looked at Celeste seriously.
"I'm happy to shower naked with you, Sister Celeste," he said. "And you don't have to pretend in front of me, not at all."
And then, without further ado: "Of course I saw you rubbing your clit. Twice. When I was fucking sweet Rosi."
Twice. He counted twice. Twice!
"That's perfectly fine on my part, I approve of it," Jack continued. "You don't have to play the strict sister Celeste in front of me. I know who you are inside. And I like you. Inside."
Celeste turned bright red.
She blushed from bottom to top, from neck to cheeks to ears, and she had no habit or veil with which to hide it. He noticed it. He noticed it and counted it, and he thought it was good, and he said he approved of it, and he said he liked me, inside, and what the hell does inside mean, inside doesn't mean inside, or does it, yes, yes, probably exactly that, and —
She nodded at him.
Nothing more was possible. She couldn't say another word. She nodded, and the nod was short, and then she turned, turned the handle, and went out.
Outside in the corridor she stopped after three steps, leaned her forehead against the cold wall, took two deep breaths and thought:
Jack isn't an asshole.
And tomorrow I'll shower with him. Naked.
And he said he liked me, inside.
And I did it twice and he watched and counted both times.
Lord, tomorrow will be a difficult day. But not a bad one. I think. Hopefully. Be merciful. And indulge. And forgive. In order.
She picked Jack up to shower the next morning. Hesitantly and trembling inside, she took off her habit — and underneath she had no underwear. After all, the coarse material was intended to drive out unchaste thoughts from a nun, that's all. So you didn't wear anything underneath. So she wore nothing underneath. So she stood there, and what she had had under the coarse material the whole time, without anyone seeing it, was now suddenly a form, a skin, a figure that could be seen. With everything about it.
Grobstoff was against unchaste thoughts. What happens to the coarse material when it's gone? Was the raw material then free? Seven years for free?
Jack had stopped and stared at the trio where the flagellants were whipping a sister and then fucking her with the whip handle until the woman orgasmed, crying and sobbing. He watched with a calmness that almost annoyed Celeste. No grin, no squinting. He looked as a student looks at a problem.
Then he came to her and slowly took off his clothes.
"You know, Sister Celeste," he said as he pulled his shirt over his head, "I've been reading up on flagellantism. It's actually, at its core, a sexual activity."
A what?
"And I recognized it immediately," he continued, calmly, almost matter-of-factly, "how the sobbing woman had her cunt whipped until just before her orgasm. And then — the insertion of the whip handle. Just a makeshift. Elsewhere the whip master sticks his cock into the flagellated woman and fucks her mercilessly until she orgasms."
Celeste's eyes widened.
Around like this. I never looked at it that way. It was always punishment. Repentance. chastisement. Something you do for the sins of the world. Something that hurts and is therefore good. And now a seventeen-year-old boy with a backful of bookish knowledge is telling me that, at its core, it's sex. A sexual activity. Sex. Not repentance. Sex.
And then —
The whip handle was just a makeshift. Elsewhere it is the whip master's tail. Somewhere else. So there are these somewhere else. So there are monasteries in which it is not a makeshift, but the original. So there are monasteries where the nun is fucked while being whipped, and that is the rule, and the crying is not penitential crying, but —
Oh, damn.
Are we all swine and swine here in the monastery? Disguise the sex so no one can see it? Disguise him as punishment? And I believed it all these years, and I saw the sister crying and thought she was crying out of remorse, and yet she...
Lord, are you laughing? Or the devil? And if one of them laughs, is he laughing at us? Or is he laughing with us? Or is it the same?
Celeste didn't know the answer to that. It was so confusing to think about.
And while she stood there and turned in circles, Jack finished undressing and was now standing there naked too. She only noticed when he turned on the shower spray next to her and the water ran in an arc over both of them.
And now. Now he's standing there. And now there she is. And now they are both naked. And the whip handle next door is making a noise, and the water is making a noise, and its cock is —
Oh, damn. He's stiff. He's very stiff. He's stiff before he's even done anything. He is stiff because he had become stiff watching the whipping. He's stiff because everything here —
Celeste reached for the soap, her hand shaking a little.
"So," she said, in a voice that sounded strange to herself. "Then let's do it."
Jack looked her nakedness up and down. And he seemed to click his tongue — but she was probably just imagining that.
She soaped and washed and stuttered. "Can I wash the cock too?"
Jack laughed. "Yes, but of course. It's neither the Holy Grail nor the Rod of Aaron. It's simply a cock that needs to be cleaned just like your cunt."
Simply. Simply. It's easy with this one. For me, this is the biggest event in seven years, and it's easy.
"If you allow it," he continued, "I want to wash out your pussy with my index finger, okay?"
She nodded, puzzled.
And Jack wrapped the washcloth around his index finger and drove it right into her fuck hole. Very deep.
Celeste held her breath in shock.
He's inside. He has his finger in it. In me. See you there. With a washcloth. And he washes.
Jack washed it with a face of concentration like a drain cleaner cleans a drain. No squinting, no showing off smiles, no casual touching. He went in, wiped, twisted, pulled, came back, the way you clean something that deserves to be cleaned.
And then he looked up.
"Your clit is really sore, Sister Celeste. If you have to jerk off that much, use a lubricant, otherwise it will get really inflamed. Okay?"
Celeste turned bright red all the way to the base of her chest.
Rubbed sore. He saw it. He looked and saw it. And he didn't politely look away, he diagnosed it. Like a doctor. Like a mechanic. Like a man who knows his stuff and talks about a nun's clit like a worn out tool. And then he tells me what I should take. A lubricant. A lubricant! For a nun's clit!
"Yeah, I don't know..." she stuttered.
Jack smiled. "I told you yesterday, Sister Celeste. Sex is not a bad thing and definitely not the work of the devil. The good Lord — or whoever — made us cocks and pussies and clits so that we could experience sexual pleasure."
Celeste lowered her eyes. The water that came from her hair on the tiles ran down her chest and stomach. And she heard herself talking, under her breath, without really meaning to.
"I had to do it all night," she said. "I kept seeing you and Rosi, and that fired me up. Otherwise I'll just do it once and it's fine."
There. There it is. Now he knows. Now he knows that I was on him all night, on him and Rosi, that I spent the night masturbating with him on my mind. And now he's standing here, with his flannel finger still warm between my legs, in my pussy, looking at me. And now it's undeniable. Now Celeste is someone who jerks off all night long. And if he says something wrong now, then —
She waited.
She waited for the smile, for the click, for the smug: "Well then, Sister Celeste." She waited for an "I knew it." She waited for what anyone who knew a little too much would have said.
But Jack just waited. He stood there, naked, with the washcloth in her pussy hole, and waited for her to continue, as if she had just said something completely natural.
And that was almost worse. Because it meant it was true.
Celeste arched her back. "Agnes isn't here this morning," she said, "only other sisters. I'll go over right away and ask, because I've never done it before and you'd have to explain to me exactly how to do it. I'll go ask."
She said it quickly, she said it firmly, she said it like someone who wants to sort things out before she gets in her own way. Agnes isn't there. Good. Very good. Then I go to the others and they explain it to me, and then it's not Jack's business, but the sisters' business, and then everything stays in order.
But Jack held her back.
"If you want to do it to me, I'll be happy to show you how to do it. Is that a good suggestion? Do you want to learn, Sister Celeste?"
Do you want to learn it? Not: Do you want to jerk me off? Do you want to learn it? As if it were a lesson. As if it were a craft, a technique, a subject. And I would be someone who learns a technique. And he would be the teacher. And we would both be naked, with water, and it would just be lessons.
Just lessons. If only that were it. Then everything would be fine. Then it would be compatible with the vow of chastity. Because you learn something in class. And sex — well. That's just how it is. With others.
Celeste hesitated for a moment. Of course she had seen the jerking off a thousand times. She had seen it in Agnes, in Carmen, in sisters, in novices. She had seen it in all variations, with her fist, with her fingers, with the flat of her hand, with the back of her hand, from the side, from the front, from behind, with saliva, without saliva, with words, without words. She had seen it a thousand times.
But she never did it to anyone herself.
"If you show me patiently, Jack," she heard herself saying, "then I'll be happy to do it to you!"
Patient. I said patiently. Why did I say patient? Patient means I expect things to take a long time. Patient means I expect tutoring. Patient means that I expect a slow, thorough approach that will take a long time to work out. Patient means it can take time.
Did she really say that?
Had the devil whispered it to her? Because Agnes was a pig who had sex with anyone and everyone, that was just the way it was. Agnes was just a pig. So she was classified. With that she was ticked off. So everything was clear to her. That's just how Agnes is. It's fine with that one.
But you? She, the Celeste? Was this compatible with the vow of chastity? With the vow of chastity that she had taken herself, with her own hand, in front of the altar, with candles, with her heart in her chest, with a priest who clasped her hands, with a shout that rang through the church, with the blessing of the Lord?
Chastity, said the voice within her. Chastity, Celeste. Chastity means not touching. Don't let it go. Do not use. It doesn't mean rubbing his cock in the shower with every beautiful boy and making him orgasm. It says: don't touch it. So — don’t touch it. So — go over to the nurses and let them do it so you don't have to touch him.
On the other hand, the other voice piped up, on the other hand he said, the good Lord made us cocks so that we could experience sexual pleasure. The good Lord. Not the devil. The good Lord did it. So the good Lord wanted a cock in one hand to be beautiful. And if the good Lord wanted this, then the question is not: Is this compatible with the vow of chastity? But: Is the vow of chastity compatible with the good Lord?
N/a. Now that's a question.
And then the nun in me says: But you are obliged to chastity, you have vowed it! And then the pig in me says: And how committed are you to chastity when you've been doing it with your own finger all night long, twice in the evening and heaven knows how many times in the night, and again this morning before you shower, and when you had a naked boy in your mind's eye that you've only known for two days? How obligated are you to chastity then, please?
Celeste realized she had taken a step toward Jack. She noticed it, but she didn't take the step backwards.
"Show me," she said. "Patient. But exactly, please."
Jack took her hand and positioned it on his cock. He didn't do it condescendingly, he just did it like you would give a colleague a tool. Then he explained.
That the foreskin had to be pushed back so that the mushroom-shaped glans could fully emerge. That you had to rub the shaft including the foreskin up and down, starting slowly and then increasing. And then, when he squirted, not to stop, but to continue jerking hard and wildly, just as she jerked her clit hard and relentlessly during her orgasm during the night until the orgasm came to an end. Until the squirting stopped, then slow down and stop completely. One minute break, then the second and third round.
Celeste nodded.
She nodded while she listened, and she nodded while she understood, and she nodded when he finished because she couldn't say anything.
He compared it to my clit. He said the way you do it. He said, firm and relentless, just like you do at night. He knows my rhythm. He knows him because he saw me. Twice. And not only did he see that I did it, he also saw how. And now he's giving me instructions based on what he's seen in me. The guy is using me as a reference. He saw a nun and says: Do it as you would with yourself. As with myself. As with the cunt he just washed out with his finger.
So — there is a standard here, and the standard is me.
She pulled the foreskin all the way back.
And the mushroom-shaped acorn looked cheekily and demandingly around.
Lord, Celeste thought. How long have I had something like this in my hand now? Ten seconds? And it hasn't happened yet, but the ten seconds are up and the hand is still on it and I haven't started yet. And when I start, I start. And then there is no going back. Then I had a cock in my hand, jerked it like I would my clit and made it squirt. Then I am someone who can do it.
She looked up.
"Thank you," she said, briefly and businesslike, and then she began.
Slow. Very slowly. And then increasing.
She did it three times in a row.
The tip of her tongue was stuck in the corner of her mouth, panting with exertion, her breasts jiggling in time. She noticed it herself and found it strange, but she didn't stop because it was just part of it. And Jack tipped his head back and squirted with a smile — not groaning, not croaking, just smiling, like someone who is happy and enjoying it and being completely with himself.
"You can point the jet at your breasts," he said, "most women like that, Celeste."
Most women. Most. So there are women who do it and who like it, and I'm one of them now, one of the most, and that's not a bad thing, that's just true. And besides, he said Celeste. Not Sister Celeste. Celeste.
She aimed the beam at her breasts.
And again the second and third time.
And yes — that was a really nice feeling. Her clit twitched every time he spurted onto her breasts, a short, bright, warm, jumping stimulus that ran from above down through her entire body, like a bolt of lightning that had gone astray. She smiled. She just smiled because it was nice.
And she had discovered why the girls did it that way. Not out of showing off, not out of custom, not because they saw it. But because the squirt jumped all the way down to her clit and made her scream inside. Because the body was built in such a way that a warm, white jet on the skin, which was already aroused, caused a small cheer. Because the whole was a single, coherent thing and not made up of separate parts with a religious vow between them.
Not a pig. I'm not a pig. And probably not Agnes either. We are both right in God's plan. We are right in the middle of what the Lord God has imagined. And the devil — yes, the devil is at best annoyed because these little people feel such innocent joy. An innocent joy! The devil wants sins. And we deliver it — innocent joy. He can't do anything with it. He stands next to it and looks stupid.
And we don't lose our souls. On the contrary. Our souls laugh. Our souls rejoice. Our souls sing praises to the Lord.
Celeste let go of Jack's cock, which was still half-twitching, and stood upright.
Or a hearty yodeler. A song of praise is nice, but a yodel is better. Yodelers are for the mountains, and God is great, and the mountains are great, and when the soul is full, then an Ave is not enough, then a yodeler is needed.
Yes, she would yodel.
She would sing her most beautiful, trilling yodel to the Lord. To the dear Lord.
Celeste was standing in the shower room, water was running down her face, a naked boy was standing in front of her, the whips were cracking next door, and she, the chaste, asexual sister Celeste, who two days ago had pressed her fist into her lap so as not to attract attention, wiped the water from her face and laughed loudly.
It was in the communal shower. Jack had me standing naked next to him, as he had announced, and because it was his second day in the novitiate, he called it initiation. He said, "Today you're going to learn it properly. And of course between six gaping nuns. You're going to learn how to jerk me off."
I knelt because it came naturally and took it in my hand as he had taught me. Flat hand. Firmly. Slow. He leaned his head against the wall and breathed. Then he said, "Come a little higher. Not with your face. With your breasts."
"What?"
"Let it squirt on your breasts. Take off the habit or push it up. Not in your mouth, not in your hand. You must squirt it on your breasts."
I had never heard that. And because I had never heard that, he said what he always said when he was teaching me something, in that calm, almost schoolmaster-like voice: "Almost all girls do it like that. Some of them can't come later otherwise. The squirt goes straight into the girls' clits. Like a little lightning bolt. If you want, try it."
I pushed the habit up over my breasts and knelt in front of him, arms on my thighs, holding my breast out to him like a plate. He said, "So. Keep going. Don't slow down." And I kept going, firmly, with the palm of my hand, and he got faster, and I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then he came.
He came in spurts. Not one gush, but strokes, four, five, six, and the semen slapped onto my nipples, warm, wet, thick, and I had never seen a person leak like that, and never a person on me. And then I listened to myself.
And Jack was right.
It wasn't a lightning bolt that you feel in your chest. It was a twitch, a short, crooked twitch in the cunt, with the clit in the middle, as if someone had flicked it briefly with two fingers. Just once, just a moment, but it was there. Not a climax, but the announcement of a later climax. And then he was gone and the semen ran down between my breasts and I knelt there and understood what he meant and knew that I had learned something again that no one could take away from me.
And the amazing thing wasn't the seed. The amazing thing was that Jack knew something in me that I hadn't known in myself. A little boy who counted on me like one counts on an abacus and who knew what my clit did when it squirted on my breasts. I should have known. I had been doing it with myself for years. And yet it was Jack who told me before I felt it.
I didn't let go like he said, but kept jerking until the last thrust was over, and then he stood there and looked down at me and said, "You see."
"Yes," I said. And then I did something I'd never done in the washroom: I used my finger to wipe the semen from my nipple and licked it off. Not because he said so. But because I wanted to know what it tasted like. Jack saw it, and a look of satisfaction came over him, briefly, like one who wins a game of chess of his own making.
Then I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and said, "Again." He nodded: "Every morning, three times, like my mom does."
Not wise, not subtle, not reverent.
Just loud.
And she thought, with an emphasis that she didn't quite dare to explain to herself:
That's it. And that's how I want to keep it. And tomorrow I'll come back, and the day after. And when the job is over, we'll talk again. With the Mother Superior. And then — yes, let’s see.
Jack looked at her.
"Celeste, Mother Superior lied to me and Mama. A cheeky lie. She said you were 41 so I wouldn't laugh! You're at least ten years younger, at most 31!"
Celeste's eyes widened. "How do you know...?"
Jack grinned. "Because I've seen so many naked women's bodies, that's why I say the Mother Superior lied to us quite cheekily. Am I not right?"
Female body. He says women's bodies. To a nun. And he says he has seen many. And he looks at me and does the math. And the worst thing is: he's right. He's just right.
Celeste looked down. "I would never contradict Mother Superior. But you're right. I'll be 31 in three months. Just like you said."
Thirty. Thirty, almost thirty-one. And the superior says forty-one. Forty-one! As if I were a piece of furniture with age. As if I were something discarded. As if I were no longer of any use. Like I was — oh. Maybe that's the point. Maybe a nun at forty-one is more harmless than one at thirty.
Jack smiled. "You nuns lie that the bars bend when it comes to age, and I have no idea why!" And then he became clearer: "You wanted me to believe that Rosi was 18 or 19. In reality, she's not even 15 and has been fucked by her relatives since she was 12. That's the truth."
How does he know? He talked to her yesterday. He asked her and she answered, in sign language, honestly, straight up, because she's a child who hasn't learned to cheat when it comes to age. And I cheated. Not even intentionally. Just the way people cheat when it comes to age.
"You should please, please stop lying to me," Jack said. "Please always tell me the truth or keep your mouth shut. Then we'll both get along well."
Celeste swallowed.
Or shut up. That's how he talks. Not polite. Not tortuous. Just straight. And it's true. He's right. And the worst thing: he's right, and it's meant in a friendly way. It's an offer. He wants to keep us both out of the mess where the cheating happens.
She swallowed a second time, and then she spoke, honestly, straight, just as he wanted.
"I didn't know how old Rosi really is. All I know is that the Mother Superior always divides her up when we have a high guest. The bishop, the abbot, the papal nuncio and so on. Little Rosi has to serve her cunt for these gentlemen because, firstly, she loves to fuck and secondly, because she looks so sweetly childlike. The high gentlemen always like that."
She looked up and looked Jack straight in the face.
"That's the truth, Jack."
Jack nodded. "No more lies. You could have said you don't know how old Rosi is. I would have preferred that."
Yes. I could have said that. And that would have been the truth without revealing it to anyone. Rosi, 15, 18, it doesn't matter. Rosi is Rosi. But I said a number that I came up with to make it fit. For the order. For the superior. For the strange boy. And so I started lying as soon as he was there.
And now he knows, and now he's telling me, and he's not angry, he's just clear. And honestly — this is the kindest thing that has happened to me in a long time.
Celeste raised her head.
"Okay," she said, briefly. And then, more quietly: "Thank you for saying that. That was honest. Coming from you."
She turned off the showerhead.
"And now let's get dressed. And then I'll take you to your cell, and you'll study, and I'll go into the kitchen and think about the Rosi and about the High Lords. And about me. And about the Mother Superior. And about everyone."
And about you, she thought without saying it.
Jack looked at her. "You forgot something, Celeste. I want to fuck Rosi. Every morning. You forgot that."
Celeste looked down.
Damned. Yes. I forgot that. He's right. And now he wants an answer, and now I have to admit that I didn't forget it, I pushed it away. And why did I push it away? Because Rosi came too close to me. Because her age was too close to me. Because her relatives were too close to me. Because everything that has to do with Rosi reminds me of something that I no longer think about in everyday life because I push it away. And because he just brought it up again by asking if I was lying.
She took a deep breath.
"I'm not going to lie, Jack," she said. "I haven't forgotten it. I wanted to suppress it. Because what Rosi told you — that she had been fucked by her relatives since she was twelve — struck me like a red-hot iron in my heart. It suddenly stirred everything up again. My whole past. My shame in front of the monastery."
Shame. Did I say shame? Yes. I have. Because that's how it feels. Not then, but now. Now that I'm sitting across from a seventeen-year-old boy and telling him what happened.
"I've been in this monastery for eleven years. Four years as a novice, seven as a vowed nun. In my novice years I was like Rosi. The former Mother Superior always pulled me out of her sleeve when she needed a bed warmer for a high lord. She was able to do it because she knew my background. And she sold me for gifts, checks or favors for four years."
Sold. I said it on purpose. Because it was like that. And because it's true. And because it still feels that way now.
"I say 'sold' on purpose," she continued. "For she never did anything for free or simply did the High Lord a favor. No. She was ancient and a shrewd businesswoman. Here I have a girl for you, High Lord, and what do I get in return?"
Celeste looked down.
Here she stood, naked and vulnerable, talking to a seventeen-year-old gifted student.
It would actually be laughable. Seven years of vows, seven years of chastity, seven years of being a nun — and now I'm standing here in the steam telling a boy that I've been hired out as a bed warmer for four years and I'm naked and my hair is stuck to my forehead and he's not naked just for the sake of being naked but because he's there and I'm there and it's surrendered. And it would actually be laughable, yes. To laugh at myself.
But she didn't laugh.
And then, without her planning it, without her knowing it beforehand, something else happened. Quiet.
"You know, Jack — in those four years with the Lords, I always thought, this is my life, this is my lot, this is what I'm here for. Bed warmer in the name of the Lord. And then eventually the vow came, and then it was over. And then it was quiet. And then I was a vowed nun and chaste and asexual and done. And actually it was right. Actually, it was right. For seven years."
She looked up.
"And now you come, and Rosi, and suddenly it's no longer a quiet monastery. Suddenly everything is back. Suddenly I'm the one who was lying in a bed and thinking about things. And you know what's the worst? I'm thirty. Almost thirty-one. And I have no idea what to do next."
Now I've said it. Now he knows everything. Now he knows that I am a nun who has had a man, many men, young men, old men, men in the episcopate, and that I don't know whether I have repressed it all or just locked it away, and that I haven't had a single cock inside me since I took my vows, although I started feeling one when I was thirteen, and now I'm thirty, and now I'm here, and it would actually be laughable.
And she stood there and waited to see what Jack would say.
Jack gently ran his hand over her shoulder, over her beautiful, full breast. Not stroking, not digging — just driving, like someone who is scanning a landscape to recognize it.
"Celeste, thank you for telling me so honestly what the last eleven years have been like for you. And I can understand if it feels like rape to a novice when she has to fuck such a high-ranking gentleman. I don't even have to ask Rosi — she would tell me the same thing. And yes, it's actually a shame how the monastery treats novices. But that's not what I want to talk about now."
He paused.
Not what he wants to talk about now. So he talks about something else. So it goes further. So he has another question. And I know which ones.
"It upset you," he said, "that Rosi had been fucked by her relatives since she was twelve years old — although Rosi seems to have found it more sporty or fun. But you? What was your shame before you entered the monastery? Were you also a rape victim?"
He said it. Exactly the word. Rape victim. The word I didn't give myself for seven years because it didn't feel like it. But now that he says it, now that he puts it in the room, now it's there and I have to answer it.
Celeste slowly shook her head.
"I don't know if it was rape. Despite my mom's vehement protests, dad deflowered me when I was thirteen. I didn't understand what fucking was. Until then, I was a dreamy, withdrawn child who preferred to play with my clit. And what did dad do? He screamed at mom and sent her back to her parents and threatened divorce. She had to lie with her dad again, fucking the old idiot night after night, even though she hated it. The poor mom."
That's how it was. That's how it was, and that's how it is, and it still sounds crazy when you tell it. A daughter is deflowered so that the mother can be sent back. So that the father has a girl in the house who is docile and a woman outside who no longer disturbs things. And I, at thirteen, was the goods in this store. Like Rosi. How many.
I was thirteen when my dad took me for the first time. There was no courting, no foreplay, no word too much. There was an argument, a giving in, and then I lay there and knew the next morning that something had changed in the house.
The argument was about me without me being asked. Mom wanted to send me to the city, to an aunt, to learn French, to learn the art of card reading. Dad said no, the girl stays in the house, the girl is needed here to fuck, that's it! They argued, louder and louder, and as it was with them, whoever had the money won. Dad had the money. And then he threw mom out.
She had to go back to her old parents. To her own father, the old gentleman. The old bastard who had deflowered her and fucked her every day until she got married, even though she hated it. And the old gentleman had been waiting for his daughter for decades. And now he took her every night. Every night. In the next room, behind a door that had no seal, and I heard it when I was with them, the creaking, the wheezing, the slight burping of the mattress.
And I was with them sometimes. Sometimes dad sent me to mom when he had to go away, when the estate needed it, when he wanted to have his back free. Then I was sleeping on the straw mattress at the end of the hallway, and then I heard it, and then the compassion came, a very soft, very stupid compassion, and I thought: Mommy is getting old, Mommy can't fuck and orgasm every night anymore, orgasm against her will.
So I lured the grandfather into my pussy. Not every evening, not always. Only when I could, when the opportunity arose in a hallway, by a curtain, in a half-dark side room. I stood on tiptoe in front of him, letting him see that I was almost as tall as his daughter, and then I waited. It never took him long. One look was enough and he took me by the wrist and pulled me behind the curtain, and my mother was lying in bed next to me, pretending to be asleep, having a night off for the first time in weeks.
So I spread myself across two beds, two generations, two men who didn't speak to each other and yet wanted the same thing. Neither of them ever thanked me. Neither of them ever asked me. And that was fine.
I was thirteen when it happened and I can still remember the exact hour because it was an hour that was supposed to be a different thing. There was an argument between mom and dad about me. About my future. Mom wanted to send me to the city, to an aunt, to learn French, to learn card art. She said: the girl is talented, the girl should become something. Dad said: the girl stays in the house, the girl is needed here, the girl is there for nothing better than to fuck.
They were arguing in the next room, getting louder and louder, and I sat in the chair and heard it and acted as if I had no ear. Then it became quiet and then the door was open and Dad was standing in there, alone. He didn't say anything. He closed the door that led to Mama, first quietly, then with a bang, so that Mama heard it and knew: the matter was decided.
He lifted my skirt. He did it quickly. He had it without a word. He pushed me onto the edge of the bed with one hand and took me with a dozen thrusts, the way you hammer a nail to make it hold. He didn't touch my clit. He didn't ask if it hurt. When it was over he lowered his skirt again, looked at me and said: "Sleep well." And then he went out.
Sleep well. That was my first time. A dozen shoves, three words, and a dad who then went into the next room to mom and scolded her because she had protested and because she lost. Mom had to go back to her old parents. She packed, she cried, she drove away, and I stayed in the house because Dad had won and because the girl was needed here.
And from then on I was no longer the daughter. I was the currency and the commodity. Dad had noticed what he had in me, and Dad wasn't the man to let that go to waste. At first he continued to take me, once a day, sometimes twice, always in the same room, always without foreplay, always without clit. Then his friends came.
It started with a chaplain, a young one with soft hands, who was with us at dinner and drank too much. He stayed overnight because it was too far, and Dad said, "Go to bed with Celeste, it's warmer." And then he lay with me and fucked me, and Dad acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then the surgeon. Then the village mayor. Then the traders who came to buy grain and stayed overnight to haggle and then came to my bed because they had bargained for it. Then the servants who lived in the house in the summer because there was harvest. Then there were the drinking buddies, Dad's actual drinking buddies, with whom he sat in the inn and drank until it was late, and then brought them home because he was showing off about me, like he was showing off about his horse.
And I didn't feel anything. Never. For seven years, from thirteen to nineteen, a whole generation of men lay on me and I felt nothing. No spark. No pulling. No shiver. They pushed, they came, they fell asleep, and I lay there with my legs open and waited for them to finish. I counted: how many thrusts, how many minutes, whether they start at the breasts or go straight into the pussy, whether they talk afterwards or snore straight away. Some called me "my child", some "girl", some "Edeltraud", and most nothing at all. And no one touched my clit. Nobody knew he existed.
And then the night came, and that night I was alone, and then I jerked my clit. That was the thing. That was always the thing. From the seven years since I discovered him, he has been my only friend and he has never let me down. Not even. When I rubbed him, at night, under the covers, in my bed, as fast and as hard as I needed, then I came. Every time. Sure as Amen in church. And the men who took me day and evening and sometimes at night knew nothing about it, they suspected nothing, and I never told them and they never noticed.
This was my life before I came to the monastery. The men had me. And I had my clit. And they were two different worlds, with a wall between them, and on one side there was pushing and counting and silence, and on the other side there was living and posh masturbation.
And when I entered the monastery at nineteen, I came with this wall. I came with the face of a good girl and the clit of a glutton. And I came with a habit that protected me because it covered me and that betrayed me because you had to push it up at night to get to your clit. And then Carmen came. And then Jack came. And then everything started to change.
And then she told me what happened next.
How her dad fucked her, in her bed, in his bed, in the hallway, in the stable, wherever it was convenient. How his friends fucked her, first hesitantly, then naturally, then demandingly, then regularly. How strangers fucked her for a few gold coins — hikers, traders, servants, a chaplain, a surgeon, a village mayor, names she had long forgotten. She told it in short sentences in which there was no feeling anymore because the feelings no longer came when she was telling the story.
And she felt nothing.
It was just a shame.
And yet — and I'm only realizing it now as I'm talking — that's not true at all. I didn't feel anything. I felt it, but it's so far away that it looks like nothing. And when I look closely, there was a girl in there who knew all along that things had to be different. Who knew that fucking wasn't the same as being used. And that this knowledge was then put away because it was so used, like a dress that was hung in the closet and never worn again.
She looked up.
"That's it," she said. "That was my shame. It wasn't that they did it to me. It was that I didn't feel anything about it. For eleven years, fucking wasn't a word that meant pleasure, but a word that meant process. A process. Something that happened while you were somewhere else. And I don't know if the Lord wanted it that way or if it just happened that way because no one asked if I liked it."
She was silent.
And realized that she was still naked, that Jack was still naked. The fact that his hand was still on her breast, without pressing, without grabbing, he was just there.
And he didn't say anything about it. And he didn't nod, didn't smile, didn't say 'that's just how it is'. He listens. He just listens. And when he says something now, I want it to be true. And if he doesn't say anything, that's good too. Then that's even better.
Celeste suddenly noticed that Jack's eyes were swimming with tears. He wasn't crying, not yet. But they were there, standing on the edge, holding each other, waiting.
And then he spoke.
"Celeste, your experience was much more terrible than Rosi's fate. As I said, she took it sportily. My God, the uncles and nephews just want to fuck me, then they should just do it. And one, Leo, who had a meat cock like Jack, was the only one who fucked her to orgasm. Those were the things that were important to Rosi. And the fact that her dad fucked her night after night in front of her mom was something she bore with composure, if not a little humor."
He paused for a moment. And his voice changed.
"But you experienced something completely different. A dreamy little girl who preferred to play with her clit in seclusion. I know that girl, I can see her in my mind."
He sees her before me. He sees the girl in front of him. The girl I was. And I didn't see it myself anymore. I put it away because it was no longer needed.
"And then, the monster. The daddy who deflowers this delicate creature and fucks her like she was a knothole in driftwood. The monster who sends the beloved mommy back into exile where she has to fuck her daddy again, something she always hated. And now she has to do it every night because she can't live on the streets."
Knothole in driftwood. Just as. That's exactly what it felt like, and I never found the word for it, and now a seventeen-year-old is saying it, and the word is perfect.
"And the monster lets all his drinking buddies fuck his little daughter, because he's the master and she's just driftwood. Who doesn't feel anything while fucking. Who just gets wide-eyed and doesn't understand why these strange men stick their dicks into her little fuck hole, pump wildly and erratically and then squirt in. What's all this for? I have no idea, she says to herself, she lies in her bed at night and strokes her clit, plays with her clit, Because he's her only real friend."
My only real friend. Yes. He hit it. And I have forgotten him, this friend, for the last eleven years I have kept him small because a nun can't call her clit a friend, that sounds silly, that sounds pigish, that sounds like someone who has fun at night when she should belong to the good Lord.
"That was your past life, Celeste. And I could cry for that little, shy girl who always withdrew and played with her only friend, her clit."
Jack said it, and then he was silent.
And something changed inside Celeste. Not around, but finally towards herself. She saw the girl. She really saw it, for the first time in years, the way Jack saw it: small, shy, dreamy, with big eyes in the bed, the clit as her only friend, and all around her there were strange men who were sticking their dicks into her and squirting into her without asking.
And she saw the girl slowly believing that this was how it had to be. That a fuck hole is just a hole that men stick their dicks into and cum while pumping, and that a clit is a toy that you use to pass the time until the next man comes to fuck you. And that there is no connection between the two. And that what others fuck is not the same as what you play yourself.
And now here she stood, thirty years old, eleven years in the convent, naked, with water on her skin, and a seventeen-year-old boy told her he could cry for the girl.
Celeste got goosebumps that had nothing to do with the water.
She didn't know what to say. But she did something else.
She took Jack's hand that was on her chest and held it for a moment. She squeezed. And then put it back where it had been. On the chest. Without grabbing.
"Thank you," she said. "That you saw her. That you saw the little girl. I had almost forgotten that she existed, ever existed."
And then, more quietly: "And now it's good. Now I've told enough about myself. For today."
Jack reminded her to get Rosi.
Rosi came, dancing with red cheeks and bursting with anticipation. She had already showered, she smelled of soap, she had freshly brushed her hair behind her ears, and she was jumping when she came in.
Celeste hadn't gotten dressed after showering. She carried her habit under her arm, like one carries a towel when one no longer needs one.
"I'll watch you again," she said. "But this time I'm no longer making a secret about the fact that I'm playing with my clit. My dear friend. You can see it. I'm not lying anymore and I'm not hiding anything anymore."
There. There it is said. In front of both. In front of the boy and in front of the little one. No longer the stern Sister Celeste who sits on a stool and thinks no one can see. No. This time it's written on her forehead. This time it's agreed. This time I'm one of the three of us, and the three of us know what we're doing. I have a clit. I have a dear friend. And I like it, and I do it, and you can see it.
Jack and Rosi fucked like they had fucked yesterday. Slowly at first, then faster, then in that rhythm that they had already found yesterday, this boy and this girl who had only known each other for two days and moved like two people who had been doing it for years. Rosi on her back, knees pulled up, hands on the boy's back. Jack above her, calm, focused, with that hump that moved along as if it were part of him and didn't bother anyone.
But Celeste sat differently this time.
She sat naked on the wooden chair, lifted one leg, placed the sole on the seat next to her butt. So her labia opened on their own and released the clit. She no longer had to put her fist through the material, she no longer had to jerk off under her habit. She could just put her fingers on it, like she does in her cell at night, naked, undisturbed, with herself.
So. This is how I sit. With one leg up. And everything is open. And everyone can see it. And if you look, you'll see a thirty-year-old nun rubbing her clit while two children are fucking. And the Lord sees it too. And the Lord probably nods. The Lord says: finally, girl. Finally.
Every now and then Jack or Rosi looked over. Rosi openly, with a grin that was half understanding, half complicity — a look that said: yes, go ahead, I do that every night too, just later. And Jack looked over at his own pace, once while breathing in, once after breathing out, calmly, checking, almost confirming. And they both saw that Celeste was watching them fuck and rubbing her clit devoutly.
Devotional. That was the right word. Celeste rubbed not greedily, not nervously, not secretly. She rubbed like someone praying a rosary, only with one hand and in a different order. Every move an Ave. Every move a thought of what she saw. And she felt it growing inside her, not as violently as yesterday when she had to hide it, but calmer, deeper, safer. As if this time it wasn't theft, but a harvest.
And that's it, she thought. I earned this today. I earned it today through honesty. Not by sneaking. Through honesty. That's the difference. And the difference is big.
She continued rubbing herself. She watched as Jack took Rosi, as Rosi held Jack, as the two gave and took each other's rhythm, and it became warm and wide and full inside her.
And the clit — my dear friend, my little old friend, my only one since I was thirteen — is happy for me. He's not alone today. He's no longer the only real friend today. Today he has two people who can see him as he is. As he always was. As he should always have been.
She leaned her head against the cold wall behind her. And she let it happen, slowly, at her own pace, without haste, while Jack and Rosi pushed each other on the cot.
And she smiled.
Just like that.
During the break while fucking, Jack told Rosi what had happened to Celeste before she left the monastery.
He did it briefly and clearly, in signs, with his face, with his hands. And Celeste watched as Rosi listened. How the round face first darkened, then squinted, then opened indignantly. Tears of pity in the girl's eyes. And underneath, immediately, immediately, without any detour, tears of impotent anger.
Rosi gestured quickly, violently, with short, hard movements. Jack translated for Celeste.
"She expresses her condolences to you," he said. "And she says she hopes your heartless dad falls out of his chair dead and goes to hell."
Celeste laughed.
Half laughed, half cried, a sound that didn't know where it belonged and just came out. And now she had tears in her eyes, just like Jack had had them before and like Rosi had them now.
Fall out of your chair dead and go to hell. So simple. So simple. So good. I haven't thought so clearly in eleven years. I thought: that's just how dad is. Dad can't help it. Dad is a child of his time. And then a deaf-mute fourteen-year-old who looks like a little angel comes and tells me: fall dead from the chair and go to hell. And she's right. She is so right. And it falls like a weight off my heart, a weight I've been carrying around for years without knowing it.
Celeste smiled through her tears.
She smiled over at Rosi. And Rosi smiled back. And then Rosi raised her hand and made a small sign, which Jack translated with a shake of the head and a grin, but Celeste also understood it as: Don't worry, sister. We are all from somewhere.
The two continued fucking.
And Celeste gave her friend, the clit, all the love that the little girl had given her clit back then. All the love. No longer the discarded, locked away, hung-in-the-closet love of a child who didn't know what to do with it. No. This time the love of a grown woman who knows what she is doing and is allowed to do it. The love that now had space within her because a stone was gone.
My friend. My little old friend. You've waited so long. You played patiently, in secret, in the dark, in the cell, in the bed, in the stool, under the habit. And now you can play again. And now you're playing for me. And now it's me playing for you. And there's a whole thirteen-year period between the two of us. And from today on, it's no longer just for me.
She rubbed herself slowly, to her own rhythm, and she watched two young people make love in front of her, and she thought of the girl she had been and the woman she was now, and she held both in her hand, the old and the new, and they fit together, finally, without one displacing the other.
And above her, in the semi-dark vault, a small cross hung on the wall.
And Celeste looked up and nodded at him, casually, in the middle of rubbing, in the middle of the orgasm that was slowly building inside her. A little nod, a yes, yes, I know you see it, and it's okay, and this time I didn't hide it, and if you want, you can enjoy it.
And then she let it come.
Celeste dressed Rosi again.
But this time like a lover.
She caressed every inch of the thirteen-year-old's skin — thirteen, Jack said. Thirteen. That's how old I was when it started. And that's the same number that stands here in front of me and doesn't know anything about it. She stroked her shoulders, her arms, her waist, her stomach. She stroked the little breasts, which were already growing a little, and she felt them under her own finger, how they felt, warm, firm, young, like buds. She stroked the cunt that had just had a cock in it and the clit that had just twitched in an orgasm, and she did it slowly, thoroughly, the way you appreciate something by holding it in your hand.
Rosi laughed from ear to ear.
She put up with it. She put up with everything with a matter-of-factness that almost made Celeste jealous. No tension, no question as to whether it is allowed. Just joy, pure joy, a child being petted and enjoying it without wondering who is allowed to do that.
It wasn't like that back then. It wasn't like that for me. For me, stroking was always tied to something. To a man, to an order, to a business. With Rosi it's just there. How nice. How innocent. How lucky.
When Celeste was finished and she had dressed Rosi, Rosi gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Just like that. A kiss. On the cheek. From a child.
Jack didn't have to translate anything.
Celeste stood still for a moment, her hand still on the last button, her cheek still warm from the kiss, and she felt like crying, but she didn't cry. She nodded to Rosi. And Rosi nodded back.
Rosi ran away jumping and happy. She was happy that tomorrow it would be so beautiful and brotherly and sisterly again. She turned around again at the door, raised her hand, waved in her direction, in Celeste's direction, and then she was gone, her steps skipping down the hall like yesterday, only a little happier.
Brotherly. Sisterly. Did she think like that? Has she found a word for three people finding each other in a room and enjoying each other without one taking anything away from the other? I didn't even know that existed. I lived for eleven years in a monastery where everyone was sisters, all brothers, all children of the same Lord, and where not a single one of us had the idea that we could fuck each other like brothers and sisters. Until now. Until a seventeen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old came along and demonstrated it to me.
Celeste let Jack learn and closed the door quietly behind her.
She stopped in the hallway.
She heard Jack open a book through the door. The quiet rustling of paper. Then silence. The boy was now sitting at his table studying rocketry, his back full of sore muscles from fucking and his belly full of the juice he'd injected into a girl, and he was now thinking about ion-photon engines.
Celeste shook her head and smiled.
That it goes together. Rockets and fucking. Stars and clit. The boy wants to go to NASA and at the same time a nun jerks him off three times and he tells her what an orgasm is. And both are true. He is both. He can be both.
She put on her habit, the coarse material, the robe of penance and chastity, which had seemed to her like a straitjacket yesterday and today just like a piece of clothing. She put on her belt, put on her hood, and folded her hands, more out of habit than out of compulsion.
And then she went into the kitchen.
Peel potatoes.
But not today to forget yourself.
In the afternoon the door to Jack's cell opened.
He looked up from his papers and nodded greetings to Celeste, the way you greet someone you've been expecting without prior agreement.
Celeste slowly but surely took off her habit. She did it calmly, she didn't fold it, she didn't hang it up, she just let it sink to the floor, because the floor in this cell was now no longer the floor of the monastery, but simply a floor. And then she lay naked on the hard cot.
Her hand was automatically on her cunt, on her clit. Not rubbing, not working, just there. As if she was where she belonged. As if the clit were a place where the hand rested.
Now Jack looked up. He closed the book and sat on the bed next to naked Celeste. He looked at her calmly; nothing showed that he knew how much it had hit. No grin, no “Well then”. He just sat there, his crooked back half straightened, and looked at her.
Celeste half sat up, leaning on her elbows.
"Jack, if you could take a break between chapters — I'd be happy to take advantage of that break."
Jack smiled. "I've already closed the book, Celeste."
So simple. So outrageously simple. Book closed, me there, done. And I spent the whole afternoon agonizing over how to say it, and now he's done it in one sentence.
Celeste was shaking inside. How could she ask him so directly? But he had said: no more lies.
"No more lies, you said, Jack Van de Meere. I want to sleep with you so much. Fuck you. Fuck you. All three at once."
So. There. Everything out. Three words, three truths, three stages. Sleep, fuck, fuck. And all three are true, and all three belong to the same wish, and if you only say one, then two are missing, and I don't want to leave out two, because leaving out has been my specialty for the last eleven years.
Jack slowly removed his clothes, but his eyes remained focused on her. He didn't look at the material he was removing, he looked at Celeste, at her face, at her shoulders, at her breasts, at her hand on her clit that she still didn't take away.
"Your service, Sister Celeste," he said mockingly and humorously.
She looked up.
"My real first name is Edeltraud, if you prefer, Jack."
Jack smiled. "You are still Sister Celeste, dear Edeltraud."
Still. He still says. So he knows there is a limit. So he knows I'm facing one. So he knows what's going on inside me without me telling him. Or he suspects it. Or he just says it because it's true. And it's true. And that's why it feels good.
She looked at him for a long time.
"But not for long, Jack."
And now. Now I'll say it completely. Now I'm going to tell him what's been going on inside me since I've known him. I've known him for three days. Three days. And in these three days I learned more about myself than I have in eleven years.
"I'll be leaving here soon, I'll be called Edeltraud again. I'll look for a good, honest man with a strong meaty cock, have children and start a loving family."
A meat cock. Did I say meat cock? Yes. I have. Because he said so. Because it's true. Because I now know what a meat cock is and because I want one. And because I can admit it to him.
"And I promise you," she continued, "I won't lock my husband between my thighs, but I will give him the freedom to make little slip-ups. That's human nature, the little slip-ups. And I'll learn to deal with them. I promise!"
So. And now he knows everything. He knows that I don't want to marry him even though he's cute. He knows he was the trigger, not the target. He knows that I am grateful to him and that I am leaving at the same time. And he also knows that I learned from him what loyalty means and that I won't become the one who misunderstands her. Not the superior. Not the one that sells. Not the one who locks up. One who loves, with room to breathe.
And that's how it happened.
Jack was jerked off by Celeste while she was showering, and then he fucked Rosi with pleasure, with the seriousness and joy that he always had with her, and then later, that same afternoon, he fucked Celeste too. Naked, on the hard bed, slowly, because he offered it to her and she took it as it was offered. And the little hump moved with it, and her legs were not in such a way that no one could escape her, but in such a way that both of them could find each other, and in her there was no longer any shame or process or process, but a place that was big enough for being loved.
All three of them had arrived.
On the cot, in the afternoon light, with books lying next to them and a robe lying on the floor and the smell of soap and sweat and a little holy smoke from yesterday, three people sat and agreed that it was so right.
And Celeste thought, with Jack's weight on her and not yet letting go:
So that's how it works. That's how it works. You let a person in because you want to, and when you want him to go out again, he goes out, and you still keep him. And then he comes back, or he doesn't come back, and both are good. And you won't get any less of it. You become more.
Lord, you did well. It took me thirty-one years to realize it. But now I have it.
Rosi's family was not poor, but they were numerous. A farm with two houses, a large stable area, a threshing floor where the hay lay in the winter and the tractors in the summer. And in this courtyard, as happens in the country when a house becomes too small and no one moves out, three generations lived on top of each other: the grandfather, the uncles, the cousins, the nephews. And in between, like a chick between roosters, Rosi.
It started when she was twelve. Not with a major event, but with a hand that was left lying too long.
She was sitting on the lap of Uncle Anton, a big man with red fists from milking, and he had her the way you sit children on your lap, and at some point his hand was no longer on her back, but under her skirt. He didn't act like it was a big deal. He just left his hand there rubbing her clit while he talked to the others about dairy prices, and when he got up after an hour he acted as if he had done nothing but sit down.
Nothing more. As if a hand jerking off under a girl's skirt was the most normal thing in the world. As if I were a sack of flour that you wanted to check to see if the contents were good. And I, at twelve, sat there and didn't dare breathe.
Three days later she was naked in his room.
Uncle Anton was not a man of words. He pulled the dress over her head like he takes the blanket off a calf, and then he looked her up and down with a look that said: Yes. So yes. Why not. He was the first. It hurt, it was short, it was unceremonious, and when he was finished he patted her twice on the hip, as one tells an animal that it has been good, and went to the threshing floor.
So that's how it was. So simple. A man gets up and down on you, and then he goes to work. And I'm lying there with a small trace of blood on my thigh and I don't know whether I should cry or laugh. I cried. And then I laughed. Both. Both at the same time. And it didn't feel wrong at all.
And then it started. Like a door that is open once and never closes completely again.
The second was Uncle Josef, the younger one, who did it differently — slower, longer, with his mouth on her neck, with words, with a pause in between that gave her the first inkling of what pleasure might be. He took his time. He took weeks. And it was he who brought her to the brink of orgasm for the first time when she was thirteen — to the brink, but not over. That put her off. This was Rosi's private property and she saved it for the night.
Then the grandfather. He was old and slow and had hands like roots, and it was he who once placed her so that she could touch herself and said: "Go ahead. Do it yourself, Rosi child, while I take you and fuck you. The child should get something out of it too."
That was a sentence that stuck. Over years.
Rosi was twelve when it started, and it didn't start with her, but with her dad. Dad was tired of being the only man in the house who didn't get anything. His brothers, Uncles Anton and Josef, had fucked their mother, his cousins had fucked their cousins, his grandfather had fucked his granddaughters — only he, the father, the lord of the farm, had been left high and dry because the mother, with five children in bed, only wanted one thing: to sleep.
"Come here, Rosi," he said one evening as she sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes, and she knew immediately what he meant because she had seen it with everyone else. He pushed her against the table, lifted her skirt, felt between her legs — not squeamishly, like a man checking a cow to see if it was pregnant — and then he fucked her. Away from the table, onto the bench, onto her back, the potato knife still in her hand. And it hardly hurt. How to peel potatoes. He worked through it, three minutes, four minutes, then he was finished, and then he said, "Good," and then he went to bed.
From then on, Rosi was no longer a child in the house, but a thing that could serve. The dad fucked her first because he was the dad. Then Uncle Anton, his brother, who lived in the next house, came and fucked her straight away, as if she were a field to be plowed when the neighbor couldn't see it. Then Uncle Josef, the youngest, who worked in the stable with the horses and who took her from the hayloft when she was thirteen and laughed because she was still so small that his hands were all around her hips.
Then the cousins. Then the cousins. Then the nephews, who were barely older than her. Then the grandfather, who was already in his seventies and still tried out every girl in the house before he went to bed, and who fucked her on his lap while the grandmother sat nearby and knitted and acted as if she didn't see anything.
It was one every night. Sometimes two. Sometimes three, one behind the other, in the stable, in the hay, in the room behind the stove, in the shed with the calves. Rosi didn't resist, she joined in, she counted, she learned the holds and the pauses and the favorite positions of each man in the same way that others learned the melodies of the hymns. She knew that Uncle Anton wanted it from behind and quickly, and that Uncle Josef wanted it slowly and with conversation, and that Grandfather preferred to take her sitting down so that his back wouldn't suffer.
And the mother? The mother knew, but the mother said nothing. She knew what was happening in the house, she had experienced it herself — she had been taken by her husband's brothers, for years, night after night, in the same stables, on the same benches. And dad didn't know anything about it. The dad, the man of the farm, the only man in the house who didn't fuck, had no idea that his brothers, cousins and nephews had laid on his wife.
And then, little by little, the mother came back into traffic. Only because the brothers asked about her. Then because they saw how their mother blossomed over the years, how her hips became round again, how she laughed again when she milked the cows. One night, when dad was away at the horse fair in town, Uncle Anton came into the room and took not Rosi, but his mother. And the mother allowed it because she hadn't had it for years and because it wasn't a risk because dad wasn't there. And then Uncle Josef came to Anton that same night, and then grandfather came because he heard it from his sons.
Since then, the mother, the mistress of the farm, was the relative's second fuck object. When dad was there, they took Rosi. When their father was away, they took their mother. And sometimes, when the mother thought that the father would not come back until the night, they took mother and daughter at the same time, in the stable, on two benches, and the men went from one to the other as they pleased. And dad never noticed anything. He came home, drank his liquor, ate his dinner, and asked his wife if everything was okay. And the mother said: "It's all right, Joseph." And then she went to bed, alone, with her back against the wall.
Rosi grew up with the men in the house, like others grow up with the cows. She learned what a man wanted before she knew the word for it. She learned what a man can do and what a man cannot do. And she met the one, only man with whom she really could: Leo, her cousin, seventeen, whom she loved because he was the only one who didn't push her legs apart, but looked at her and asked kindly before he fucked her. She came to Leo. She felt it with Leo. She joined in with everyone else.
And her line about fucking, the line that summed it all up, was, "Oh, it's like peeling potatoes." She said it as she said it, without rancor, without transfiguration. It was just like that. And when Jack asked her later on the cot what it was like, in the house, with the uncles, with the cousins and the nephews, with the grandfather, with the dad, then she would say it again, the same thing: "Like peeling potatoes." And then she pulled the blanket up to her armpits and started talking with her hands.
The cousins came along. First one, then the other, then the uncles' sons, then the nephews from further away who came to visit and who were generously "loaned". In the hayloft, in the stable, behind the shed, in the bathroom. Nobody asked. Nobody made a ceremony of it. You took Rosi when you needed her, and she let yourself be taken, and sometimes she was even the one who started.
And then Leo came.
Leo was a second nephew, seventeen, with arms like a young ox and a meaty cock that he himself didn't quite understand. Everything was different for him. With him she didn't go home empty-handed. She came to him. Twice. Three times. He didn't stop when she jerked in orgasm, he kept going, wilder, until she writhed and screamed beneath him. He was the only one who even made it that far. And she loved him for it, so simply, so openly, the way a girl of thirteen loves: he made her orgasm, so he was the best.
The Leo. With him I'm not Rosi, with him I'm a human being. I feel something about that. In this case, I'm not the one you take, but the one you do it with. And if he holds my hands as I go in, then I know: I'm coming with him. I always come to him.
The mom.
Rosi's mom was a neat, skeptical woman. Someone who went to church on Sundays, who wiped in between, who stuffed her breasts in her bodice like documents in a closet, and who did her duty in bed with a certain contempt. She was only soft at night when she jerked her clit. She had married her husband because it was fitting, not because she wanted to. And she had thought that the court and the men of the court were rude, that they were peasants, that the fine people in the office would not look after them.
When she noticed that Rosi was fucking her uncles — her brothers — she frowned. "The child! With his own uncles!" — and then she acted as if it was a matter between Rosi and the brothers and she was left out of it.
Until the evening when Uncle Anton, her own brother, said: "Rosel, now you know. Now tell me why you're not actually allowed to have a go too?"
And he hadn't asked her like a stranger, but like a man who believed he had a right to her because she was the woman in the house, and because her daughter had long since been revealed, and because a mother who doesn't forbid something to the child is allowed to try it herself.
It happened in the kitchen. At the table where potatoes were usually peeled.
Rosi's mom wouldn't let her undress her, she just let her lie over the table and push up her dress. And then she lay there with her stomach on the kitchen table and Anton did it to her from behind and she held her teeth together and after ten minutes a sound that Rosi had never heard from her escaped her. Not big, not loud. But a tone. And Rosi sat in the corner on the stool and watched her own mother being taken by her brother at the kitchen table, and she didn't see it as competition, she saw it as salvation.
The mom. Finally. The mom who always gritted her teeth, who always said fucking isn't for pleasure, the mom who looked like she invented nature so the world wouldn't die out. And now she's lying on the kitchen table, her dress pushed up her back, and Uncle Anton is fucking her and she can't keep her teeth together anymore. She holds her hands on the edge of the table and shakes her ass. And I'm sitting here looking at it. And she's not the mom anymore. She is a woman. She is like me. One to fuck.
That was the break.
From then on, the rosel passed through the hands of uncles, cousins, nephews — everyone wanted to have it at some point. She was older than Rosi, she was more mature, she was the woman in the house, and whoever was allowed to look her father in the eye was also allowed to look into her mother's lap, and sometimes they both looked, the mother taking turns with two men, while the child sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes as if it was nothing.
Just the dad.
Dad was the only one who never came along. During the day he was in the field, or in the stable, or at the office. He was always the man who was somewhere where no one else was. And so it happened that dad was the only guy in his own house who couldn't get hold of his own wife — because his uncles, his cousins, his nephews were fucking her away from him, in his own kitchen, on his own table, in front of his own daughter, and he didn't notice anything about it because he was at work.
And when he came home in the evening, tired, with a beer in his mouth, he sat down in the living room and didn't know that his wife had been taken by his or her brother that afternoon and that his daughter had been watching the two of them.
Dad doesn't know. Dad doesn't know anything. Dad thinks he has a farm, many brothers, a wife, a daughter. And all he has is a bed where he sleeps while the uncles next door fuck my mom. He's the only man in the house who doesn't fuck his mom. He's the only man in the house who doesn't notice that everyone else is fucking their mom. And that's perhaps the worst thing you can do to a man — fuck his wife without asking him.
And when things were really bad, when two uncles and a nephew were there at the same time and Rosel no longer knew who she belonged to first — then Rosi sat in the corner and was the only one who could still see clearly. And she didn't think about anything else. She thought of Leo. To the only man in this house who made her feel like a human and not like a rose.
The Leo. Just the Leo. If I could choose, it would only be Leo. For everyone else, I'm the daughter, the niece, the cousin, the little one who's always there and her cunt is always a little open. For Leo, I'm Rosi. And I'll come to Leo.
That's how she grew up. Not with scruples, not with shame, not with the feeling that something was wrong. She grew up knowing that a house is a house, that a man is a man, that a mother is a woman, and that people take each other when they need it, and that in the midst of all this, the child is the only one who fully understands it — and therefore the only one who would ever fully understand it.
And so she came to the monastery at fourteen, with a happy face, with the certainty that fucking was something sporty. That it's not the end of the world. And that you can do it anywhere there is a table or a bed if you want. And who had no objection to the Mother Superior renting her out to the high lords like a pound of flesh. Fucking was a good thing, especially with Jack and Leo, they did it best.
When she was still Edeltraud, Celeste was a child straight out of a picture book. Dreamy, quiet, with a room to hide in and with hands that knew where they belonged early on. At eleven she lay in bed in the evening and played with her clit. Not with a goal, not with an effort — just like visiting a friend without wanting anything from him. The clit was the only place on her body where she owned herself. And of course she had figured out how to jerk her clit if she wanted to orgasm. Usually just one was enough to let her fall asleep blissfully. But sometimes her friend, the clit, would demand that she do it several times if she had seen a lot of fucking. This was very tiring, but she did it so that her friend, the clit, could find peace and also be ready to fall asleep.
The world is big and loud. The mom is tired from all the fucking. Dad is gone. But down here, between my legs, there's a little spot and it's all mine. He's waiting for me. He's happy when I come to him with my finger. And when I'm gone, he's still waiting. He's my friend. The only one.
And then the evening came when daddy did it.
She was thirteen. She was lying in bed, as always, her hand under the covers, her clit warm and friendly. And then the door opened and dad came in, not as usual, not to say goodnight, but with a different gait, with a different look.
He didn't sit on the edge of the bed. He stood by the bed and looked at her for a long time, and then he pulled the blanket away, and then he pulled up her nightgown, and then he looked at what the child had, which he had otherwise only seen in passing.
And then he lay down with it.
He wasn't affectionate. He wasn't rude either. He was like a man who does something that he has planned for a long time and has put off for a long time. He pushed her nightgown over her chest, he left his hand on her stomach, and then his hand went further down to where her own hand was, and then he took it away, her hand, like a teacher takes a pen out of a child's hand, because now the teacher is writing.
And then he penetrated.
It's in there. He's in there. What is this. What is this. This is not like my finger. My finger is small and knows me. He's tall and doesn't know me. He pushes himself into me like a stranger in an apartment he doesn't live in. And then he stays there for a moment. And then he pushes again. And again. And I, at thirteen, don't know where to look.
It hurt. Not very, but right. It bled a little, she noticed it later on the sheet. And dad didn't last long. He made a dozen thrusts, then he twitched, then he lay on her for a while, heavy, with his breath in his hair, and then he got up, said "Sleep well," and left.
That's it. That was the deflowering. Two minutes. A dozen thrusts. A man gets up, says sleep well, and leaves. And I'm lying here with a little hole that's bleeding from it, and with a clit that's been lying next to me the whole time, watching and not even being asked. He didn't touch the clit. He just drove past him like he was a neighbor you didn't say hello to. Then why have the clit if no one needs it?
And then mom came.
Mom knew it, she suspected it, she protested like you said. But the dad was the master of the house, and the dad wanted the woman out of the way while he fucked the child. So he sent mom back to her parents. And there, in the old house, sat an old man — Celeste's grandfather, mom's dad — and the old man had a wife who had lost her mind long ago and a bed in which there was still a free place.
And mom had to go in there.
Not once, not twice. Night after night. Because you don't live on the streets, because you can't go back into your marriage, because a child needs carte blanche in the man's house and a woman needs a place to sleep outside. And so, night after night, mom lay with her own father, fucking the old idiot she despised because he had given her nothing all her life but himself and his puny cock.
My mom. My poor, neat, skeptical mom. She told me before, "Better stay where you are, girl." And then she left because she had to go. And now she lies with the old man every night and he takes her like a right because he is her father and she has nothing else. And she does it for me. For your child. So that her child can stay in the house while the man uses the child. And she loathes it. And she does it anyway. And I, thirteen, never found out. Until now. Until now, when I suddenly know.
And Celeste stayed in the house. As currency.
Dad's friends came. First hesitantly, then of course. They didn't come for mom, she was gone. They used to fuck their mom, all of them, because dad looked the other way and didn't care who fucked his wife. They came for the daughter. Dad was proud, he had something to show for it, he had a girl in the house who was good and quiet and docile and pretty. And so he loaned her out like a tool.
There was a chaplain, a surgeon, a village mayor, hikers, traders, and servants. They all took it, each one once, each one a little different, each one a little more like the last. And Celeste allowed it. She lay there, she held her legs open, she let herself be inserted, she let herself be pumped, she let herself be injected. And she felt nothing.
Nothing. Really nothing. Daddy pushes himself inside me and I don't feel what I feel when my finger touches me. A strange guy is lying on top of me and all I can feel is his weight and his breathing. And when he's done, he pulls his cock out again and I'm lying there with a wet hole and not a single spark in my clit. Not even a small one. Not even that. Why? Why doesn't anything go over there? Why is the clit so far away when a cock is inside me?
And she tried. She tried to feel it. She tried to imagine herself with the guys, she tried to get carried away, she tried to think about her clit while she was being fucked. It didn't work. The clit remained numb as long as she didn't touch it herself. She never came. Not even. Not once in all these years. Not a single man has made her orgasm.
Only at night did she jerk her clit to orgasm.
At night, when everything was quiet, when the house was dark and dad was snoring, then she lay in bed, like she did when she was eleven, and then she played with her clit. Whatever the hell. And then she came. Always. Every time. Until at some point she cried because it was so beautiful and because it was so little. Because she was a lover by night and a sack of flour to stick a cock in by day.
And the clit remains my friend. The only one. The men take the route above me, but the clit takes the route through me. And when I do it at night, I'm the only woman in the house who is at home in her own body. The dad and mom are somewhere, and the guys are somewhere, and they're all on the move. And I'm lying here, and my clit and I, we're all there. And we're coming. And then we fall asleep. And this is the only place in my life where joy is entirely mine.
That's how she grew up. Not with a trauma that she could name, but with a gap: there was nothing between fucking and cumming. There was no bridge between what a man did to her and what she did to herself.
And so she came to the monastery at nineteen. With a clit as the only equipment. With a faith that wasn't wrong, but that no longer knew where to go with her. And with a chastity that she didn't invent, but that she chose because of a lack of bridges — because chastity is at least an answer for someone who doesn't feel anything when fucking.
When she entered the monastery, she was neither frigid nor prudish.
She was just one who knew that the clit was the only way to herself — and who didn't know that there was a way back. One where a man and a clit and a fuck hole are one and the same thing. One where she could get fucked and cum.
And that path was before her at the moment when a seventeen-year-old boy with an ugly hump on his back and a meaty cock between his legs said to her:
"I've already closed the book, Celeste."
And then she didn't have to fit in anymore. Then she was just there.
It was the third evening. Rosi was sitting on the bunk dressed because she wanted to stay a little longer even though she had already been fucked, and Celeste was sitting on the stool with her robe on but without a belt because she had left it behind at some point. Jack was sitting at the table, chair upside down, chin resting on the back, smoking a joint he'd rolled from two leftovers.
At some point Rosi gestured a question, short and curious, and Jack laughed, and then he translated for Celeste:
"She wants to know how it started for me. Because she told me how it started for her. She says fair is fair."
Celeste nodded. She felt like she wanted to hear it, without being able to say exactly why.
Jack sat up. And then he started, speaking for Celeste and signing for Rosi...
My mom is the Marquise, but before she was the Marquise, she was the wife of a man who was abroad for three years and visited her twice during that time and both times fucked her more than she let herself be fucked. That's pretty much what she told me later. By the time he got back, it was too late — she already had me and he had already lost her, and then he tried other women, and then he gave up completely and went away again.
So mom was alone. With me. On an estate. With staff, with horses, with a bedroom with a large bed and otherwise only a few fat bank accounts and a withered aristocratic title.
She breastfed me late. She kept me in bed for a long time, much longer than usual. When I was four, she brought me in naked one evening because it was warm, and then I lay in her bed and she ran her hand down my back, the way you rub an animal's back when you can't sleep.
When I was five, I noticed for the first time that she sometimes didn't just touch my back.
There was nothing clear. A hand that stayed down a little longer than necessary. A hand that stayed on my ass when I turned and didn't move away for a while. A hand that slipped a little deeper when I was already half asleep. And I was five and thought: Mom touches me, that's nice, why not?
She started doing it with an ointment when she was seven.
She said she got it from an herbal witch in the neighboring village and that the ointment was for the skin and for growth and everything. She applied it to me every evening, after the bath, all over my little cock, with two fingers, from bottom to top, back and forth a few times. And she didn't look like a mother looks, but looked like a gardener looks at a plant that he has raised.
She got an ointment from a witch to make my cock bigger. And she told me to do it every night. And she made a face like she was preparing something. And I was seven and I didn't know anything and I just accepted it. And it was beautiful. It was the best thing of the whole day. And it should never have stopped.
When she was seven, almost eight, she made me squirt for the first time.
It wasn't a big event. She just finished it. She applied the ointment like she always did, and then she didn't stop, but kept rubbing, faster, harder, and I felt this pulling sensation in my balls for the first time and I didn't know what it was, and she said, "Just let it come, Jack, just let it," and then it came, and it came with no juice, just the twitching, just the pulling, and then I lay there and laughed because it was so beautiful, and she laughed because I looked so stupid have.
And from then on there was no turning back. From then on I lay in her bed every night and she rubbed me every night and I learned that a cock is a thing that can grow, that can get hard, that can squirt. And that a mother has a hand that can make it squirt. And that there is nothing better than a hand that knows.
She fucked me when I was nine. Not really, just a little. She sat on me, on the little cock, with her pussy, and went up and down ten times until I squirted in it and then she said: "So, now you've squirted in it. Good boy!" And she didn't go all the way to orgasm, she just showed what was possible and then she got off and lay down next to me and said, "Go to sleep now."
And I didn't sleep. I was lying with my little cock in my hand, with a wet spot from her pussy on it, and I thought to myself: now I know. Now I know where this belongs. It belongs in mom, it belongs in injected. Not just in your hand. In mom's pussy. And that's the mom, and the mom is mine.
Trish is my mom's sister.
She is a year younger, but taller, stronger, louder. She laughs a lot, she rides like a man, she swears like a groom, and like Rosi, she is someone who takes fucking sportily and has never made a scene out of it. She had men, she had many men, and she talked about each one as if it were a riding accident, and she didn't talk about any of them for more than a week.
And Trish wanted a child.
Not just any child. A child from a man she liked. And she tried all the men she liked and it didn't work. Not one. She was twenty-five, then twenty-six, then twenty-seven, and nothing happened. And the doctor in town said it was probably her fault, but he wasn't sure and she should just keep trying.
And then she came to our estate.
Not by chance. Mama had invited her because Mama always invited her when she felt lonely and because Mama needed her sister to keep her from going crazy in the big bed. Trish came with four suitcases and three riding boots and stayed for two weeks, then two months, five years.
And it took less than two days for Trish to realize what was going on with us.
She didn't say it. She just looked. She watched how I moved around the kitchen in the morning, she watched how Mom looked at me, she watched how I retreated to Mom's room in the evening while she was still sitting in the room. And one evening she stood in the door when I was already in mom's bed and mom wanted to get the ointment and said:
"Oh. That's how it is here."
And Mom, without hesitation, with a matter-of-factness that almost stunned Trish:
"Yes. That's how it is here."
And then Mom said, "Come in, Trish. Look at it. It's easier than explaining."
And Trish came in and sat on the edge of the bed and Mom got the ointment and started like she did every night. And Trish was watching. Listened. Watching me get hard, watching mom rub me, watching me cum. And when I was done, Trish just said:
"I want a son like that too."
Not immediately. Trish didn't want to be like a thief. She only watched for two weeks and then one day she asked if she could join in too.
Mom said, "Try it."
And then I was lying between two sisters. Two sisters who look alike and are not alike. The one who rubbed me like she always did, but with a hand that was now parted a little. The other, who took my legs and adjusted them, because she slid my cock under her own stomach and sat on it, slowly, carefully, and then went up and down with a little, surprised hiss, and then with a long, deep sigh that slid all the way down the small of her back as soon as I squirted into her cunt.
Mom lay there and watched. And mom held my hand. And Trish rode me and I was ten and it was like a dream about a crippled boy who had two mothers all at once.
One is holding my hand. The other one rides me. And both are sisters. And they both have me. And they both allow each other to do it. And neither of them is jealous. And I, at ten, am between two grown women and don't know whose I should belong to, and therefore I belong to both of them. And that's a good thing.
Trish didn't come the first time. She came the fourth time. And when she came, she sat on me, upright, with her head back, with one hand in my hair, the other on her clit, moaning long and deep, and Mom was watching, and Trish said afterward:
"If that's not enough, then I don't know."
It wasn't enough.
It wasn't enough because it wasn't enough to fuck every day for a month when the man only has a ten-year constitution and the woman has been wanting children for ten years in vain. Trish has tried everything. She lay down on the bed, she lay on her stomach, she lay on her stomach over a chair, she sat on me, she let herself be taken from behind and while standing up, she leaned against a table, she tried putting pillows under her bottom because they say that helps. And Mom always sat by and helped because she enjoyed it, and because she didn't want to give me away, and because she didn't have to be jealous, because Trish didn't want to take anything away from her — she just wanted a child.
And then it came.
It came when Trish had almost given up. When she was already half talking about going back into the city, to a doctor, to a clinic where there were nuns and white sheets. It came on an evening when there was nothing special. Trish lay on her back with her legs over my shoulders because that was the last thing she wanted to try. Mom lay next to her, holding Trish's hand. And I fucked Trish slowly, calmly, to the rhythm Mom had taught me, and Trish came, and I came, and then the three of us lay there and said nothing.
Two weeks later the period stopped. Then the disgust in the morning. Then the doctor. Then the certainty.
She was pregnant. From me. From a thirteen year old. About a little guy with a hunchback who got a meaty cock with an herbal ointment. And Trish cried. And mom cried. And I also cried because they both cried. And Trish grabbed me and said, "You, you little shit, you did it." And she laughed and cried at the same time. And for the first time I knew that a cock is not only good for squirting, but also for making children. And that is something completely different. This is a whole new life.
Trish had the child. A boy. She didn't attribute it to me or to one of her old men, she just had it and to this day it looks a bit like me, but no one knows that and she will never say because it makes no difference. He's her son, and I'm his half-brother and his cousin and his nothing, and it's a good thing.
And she continued after that. She raised the little one and had men again in between, and when she came to the estate she would lie with me again from time to time, no longer to make a child, but simply because it was nice and because she had known me since I was ten.
And mom allowed it, because mom always allowed it.
"And you know what was the best?" he said. "Mom was never jealous. Neither was Trish. We were three who allowed each other because we each knew what we had from the other. No rivalry. No secrets. No guilty conscience. And that's perhaps what I brought with me to the monastery and what I like here. That there doesn't have to be ownership. That you can share if you want."
Rosi nodded, like someone who understood. She had experienced it herself, in her relatives, in her kitchen, in their beds. She had had no rivalry with her mom. She had been fucked at the same time as her and shared it with her.
But Celeste said nothing.
Celeste was sitting on the stool with a belt that she had left somewhere and it was working inside her and she didn't know where to look. It was working inside her like it had never worked since she was in the monastery. And it wasn't the fucking that was working inside her. It was the word Split.
He says share. He says no property. He says three people who allow each other. And I've thought all my life that once you belong in one bed, you only belong in that one bed. And at thirteen I lay in a bed that wasn't a bed, and at fifteen in Marie's bed, and at seventeen in the men's beds, and then in the monastery bed, and I didn't belong anywhere, I was just a guest everywhere. And now this boy tells me that there is another way. That you can stay and still share. That you can love without owning. And that the one place I've belonged since I was seven is the clit. And that it can also be shared. With Marie. With Carmen. With him.
She looked up. And she said something she hadn't planned.
"Trish was lucky."
Jack looked at her.
"How come?"
"Because she wanted to," Celeste said. "Because she chose it herself. Because no one forced her. Because she opened a door and went through it, and because there was someone behind it who let her go through. And because the person who let her go through was your mom and not a dad who wanted a check for it."
And then it comes, Celeste. And then you say it. And then it's out. Not today. But soon. Soon you'll say it. Soon you will know what you want, and then you will go through the door that you didn't open because you didn't even see it, and behind it there will be no one to own you and no one to own you.
Jack stayed in the monastery for 5 weeks, then he went back home, Mom and Trish were back.
But these 5 weeks were a pleasure, Jack thought. Every morning Celeste jerked him off in the shower, three times like he was used to with mom. The nuns who now came in droves to shower at exactly that time (there were 14 open shower compartments) these nuns asked Celeste if they could jerk Jack's cock too? She looked at him questioningly and he nodded in agreement. Now nun after nun came and jerked off Jack. Sometimes two came, one jerked him off and the other spread her pussy lips with her fingers and the first let his seed squirt into her open cunt. Jack let himself fall forward and drilled his cock deep into the cunt hole to finish squirting, happily squirted to the end in this cunt, and that was a hello! and a blast! Only very few people wanted to fuck properly in the shower, maybe seven or eight, although Jack did it really well.
Celeste immediately took charge of organizing the fuck sessions. Jack was more than happy to forgo masturbation if it meant he could fuck three different nuns in the shower every morning. Celeste instructed the willing nuns to brace their hands against the tiles and present their asses, eager and available. This allowed Jack to fuck three different, eager-to-please nuns from behind each morning — a truly heavenly arrangement for our Jack. He kept a record of the sisters he had fucked on his laptop; it soon went well beyond the first eight, reaching some 30 or 32 different nuns whom he had taken from behind in the mornings — in the end the number went up to 76, as with some letting themselves be fucked multiple times! The other nuns would stand in a circle around Jack and the nun in question, sighing, gasping, and becoming highly aroused by the public act; once it was over, they would pat the nun on the shoulders in a sisterly, appreciative gesture. The Mother Superior, of course, found out about it, but she merely smiled. The Marquise’s check covered it all — the boy was free to fuck every single one of the 114 nuns and novices whenever he felt like it. It suited her perfectly, and she couldn't have cared less which nuns chose to let the boy fuck them. The check was good — a substantial, hefty sum — and as solid and genuine as a gold bar.
Then Rosi came to his cell and they fucked every morning while Celeste sat naked on the armchair and openly did it with her clit. Celeste came alone in the afternoon and she fucked Jack every day. Jack, however, studied at least 12 hours a day, until well after dinner.
On the final afternoon, Celeste remained lying down, gently stroking Jack's cock and bidding farewell to this magnificent tool. "Jack, you've known this for a long time, but I'm going to say it out loud now, because you deserve to hear the truth: In a few weeks I'm going to see Mother Superior and saying goodbye. Nothing she could say would stop me, absolutely nothing. I buried a lot of gold coins in the monastery garden during my time as a novice, and I'm digging them up now. I will return to the secular community, but not to my family. I will fuck all the men that cross my path remember which of them has a strong meat cock and a good character. And if it takes years and I have to fuck hundreds: I will find him. We will start a family, have children and I will raise them honestly and faithfully.
Jack, I'm 31 and I can't marry a 17 year old, even though I've thought about it a hundred times. You have a magnificent meaty cock and a flawless character. Your hump has never bothered me, you have to believe me. Besides, you're drawn to NASA, you want to conquer the stars and will probably move to the USA, but I wouldn't want to go there, I don't like the crumbling American society at all.
I'm saying goodbye to you today, tomorrow I won't be able to say goodbye to you the way I wanted because of tears. Farewell, my dearest friend, and I will be grateful to you all my life for everything you have given me in these 5 weeks. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Jack hugged her, held her in his little boy arms in silence for minutes. "Celeste, I am touched and proud that you finally know where your feet have to take you. You were never suitable to be a convent sister, you are not the type to be happy in this lying brothel. Celeste, as long as I am still in the country and studying, you are welcome in my bed at any time! No matter whether I am currently studying or whether I am fucking with mom, Trish or another sweet angel, come to me, lie down with me and enjoy it You will always be welcome in my arms!
With tears in her eyes they fucked again, she jerked from orgasm to orgasm while fucking and clung to her hero as he cummed after a long time, hurling his full load in spurts into her welcoming cunt. Jack kissed every inch of her body. She stood up, dazed and half-stunned by the force of these climaxes, and took her habit under her arm. Then she scurried out into the hallway in tears.
And in the corridor, in the semi-darkness, with her habit under her arm, she stood naked and thought:
Edeltraud.
My name is Edeltraud.
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Ooo...