The Nun’s Chronicle

By

Falconer Bridges

This is an extract from the forthcoming novel ‘The Punisher’.

SISTER CECELIA’S CUNT was on fire.

And it was all my doing.

I’d slashed, beaten and ravaged almost every inch of her lithe, enticingly unspoilt body until her entire being pulsed and burned with the raging passion that only a proficient and thorough chastisement can achieve. As each successive, biting stroke had fallen, much like an alchemist turning base metal into gold, I’d slowly and steadily engineered the mutation of one state of existence into another. But what I had transformed was something altogether different. I had converted almost unendurable pain into almost unendurable pleasure: a feat of pure sorcery of which only the most accomplished and experienced Masters of punishment are capable.

Of course I’d paid a great deal of attention to her breasts before I’d moved on to her garden of veiled delights. Veiled, I hasten to add, not by the coarse cloth habit that was her normal apparel, but by something altogether more sensuous and pleasurable to the eye. Her vaginal lips and the entrance to her love hole were almost hidden by the extraordinarily dense, long and silky cunt hairs that sprouted from her well-thatched and prominent ‘Mound of Venus’. And a most satisfying and eminently prick rousing sight it was, especially to any man who prefers to gaze upon a naked female in her natural state, rather than is the fashion among many noble ladies of shaving every hair from their bodies. And like those men, shaven cunts are not to my taste.

I cannot deny that throughout the session of breast punishment I had been aching to get on with what I enjoy more than anything else - the thrashing of a previously innocent and untutored sex. But most enjoyable and satisfying as that is, first things must come first. And so I had gained as much delight as I could by demonstrating what surely would have been considered by anyone able to watch it, a master tutorial in the art of the flailing of breasts. When delivered by myself that is a tit torture quite the equal of the insertion of embroidery needles, the clamping of the full mammary in a screwed-down press or the piercing of the nipples with leather-working bodkins.

Of course to be considered on a par with the more usually accepted torment that those tortures of the breasts produce, I reasoned that I must submit my techniques and methods to the appraisal of my peers.

And that I have done.

So I am proud to disclose that not a single of my so-called equals has ever considered themselves able to challenge my superior ability. My true equal they will never be - I am the Grand Master, the ultimate exponent of flagellation, the prophet whose teachings must be followed to the letter.

And as I do not suffer from false modesty, I have no hesitation in declaring myself to be the ultimate expert in the deliverance of pleasurable pain. Countless years of practice had honed my skills to such perfection that failure to thrash an inexperienced novice to orgasm was something that neither I nor any member of The Brethren was able to contemplate. For that reason, although I was brought to that forbidding and sombre place solely for the training of Sister Cecelia, having realised my special qualifications, the Prioress always called upon me to introduce the new initiates of her Order to the delights that physical discipline and corporal punishment can bring into their lives.

The heights to which I was able to take them were legendary in the Convent. So much so that following their initiation by myself, many of the sisters never again found themselves able to attain the same pinnacle of fulfilment to which I drove them at their induction ceremony. Time and again they begged the Prioress to allow them to taste my cutting bite once again, only to be told that their initial time with me was a holy-ordained foretaste of the delights that await them in Heaven if they remain true to their vows.

To experience such gratification again the sisters were required to pledge their hearts, souls and physical bodies to the ‘One True God’. I hardly need to add that this solemn promise of course included the nuns’ spiritual brothers, the monks of the priory. Mortal men who are His flesh and blood representatives here on Earth. And this they always did. Every last one of them, in the hope that I would once again lead them along the road to sexual paradise. The spiritual paradise promised by The Almighty himself faded into mere inconsequence when they recalled the heavenly journey on which I conducted them. Once I had converted them to believe in my own doctrine, that the gaining of divine recognition, as well as the pleasure of immeasurably mind-bending and body-racking orgasms is attainable only through pain, they lived for nothing else.

How easy it was for me. How absolutely impossible it was for them. Those unworldly women, noviciates and nuns alike, found themselves completely unable to deny my power and authority. They had little concept of anything that existed beyond the realms of their overheated imaginations. Virtually imprisoned in the convent, they were confined there, ignorant and shackled by religion. Oft times it was because they had imagined themselves called thither by His voice, but more often than not it was upon the wishes of parents eager to rid themselves of unwanted daughters. Daughters who did nothing but bleed their households of what little resources they had. So by one means or another those unfortunate souls sought succour behind the walls of the convent. Marriage to God was their salvation, their cocoon from the harsh realities of the outside world that were so luridly described to them by the Abbot and the Prioress.

The outside world?

What was that? They knew not. But me, before I was brought to that place I had slashed, beaten and scourged my way through all the forbidden pleasures of the flesh so expressly forbidden by the scriptures. Scriptures totally ignored by both the nuns of the convent in which I found myself and the monks of their associated monastery.

As I recall those halcyon days of yore, I cannot give any real account of the number of times I had found myself almost drowning in the juices of love, buried up to the hilt in a spasming, gripping cunt. Suffice to say it is many times in excess of anything even the most active of cocks can normally expect to experience. So many were the grateful, lusting maids that I drove to a flooding, convulsing climax that I gained a notoriety that eventually saw me welcomed into the households of a multitude of the great and good.

As tales of my indisputable prowess filtered continually down and then back up through the structured social layers of noblemen, gentry, freemen and serfs, sexually denied or mistreated men of every rank utilised my services to bring haughty wives, concubines and daughters to heel. And in doing so I came to learn that the fables regarding their cosseted ladies that great knights and patricians seek to impress upon their underlings are completely without foundation. The bodies of aristocratic females are no more sweet, tender or desirable than those of a well-scrubbed peasant girl, a tavern wench or guttersnipe whore. In truth, upon reminiscing I find that a buxom well-fucked tart, who makes her daily bread through the selling of her cunt, arse, mouth and tits, will almost always provide infinitely greater satisfaction to a lust-driven hard and throbbing cock than any of those interbred sexless products of formally-arranged marriages.

Since the earliest of my days here in the land of Albion, introducing both masters and slaves to the intricacies of sexual dominance has been my calling. Throughout the seemingly endless spunk-filled years, I have been called upon by my masters to thrash and then invade not only the cunts of maidens of their own paramountcy but also those of innocent girls of low-born status. Maidens plucked from villages or fields without fear of retribution, their lord’s ‘Droit de Seigneur’ being not open to challenge.

Many of the younger nobles were completely inexperienced and knew nothing of sex; of the gushingly drinkable, tongue-delighting musky juices that flood from a raging, orgasming vagina. But my experience is without parallel and after a period of association with me, every single one of them would tell you without fear of contradiction that maids from the gutter fuck, suck, smell better and generally provide more pleasure than a titled lady could ever contemplate. Which is why for a bollock-bursting and thoroughly satisfying fuck, they are forever the choice of high-born men.

As dutiful subjects of the Crown and loyal servants of your own lord, what a sad duty it is of mine to enlighten you to facts that may cause you to doubt the veracity of your betters. They do not wed for love, or even lust. Noblemen marry Noblewomen because it is their expected duty. And that duty is to sire a legitimate heir, born of the aristocracy, to carry forward their names and titles. An heir who will inherit their estates and chattels, its sire usually engaging in only the most perfunctory sexual congress in order to accomplish this feat. In truth as the result of centuries of interbreeding, aristocratic females are more often than not extremely plain in appearance, something that does little to tempt a lusty cock into fucking them for pleasure and satisfaction.

And more pleasure and satisfaction have I been witness to than it would be wise to admit. The rock hard shafts of revered Knights, dribbling with the liquor that comes before the actual penetration of an eager dripping cunt, is a sight that is not uncommon to me. And in truth these ‘Defenders of The Faith’ are rarely content to make use of only one maiden at a time. More often than not, following a sound thrashing from myself to prepare the girls properly for the favour of being allowed to sexually service their masters, these warriors will fuck and sodomise two, three or even more lusty cocksuckers. And when the fucking is over, with myself close at hand, it is often a knight’s delight to sit with a goblet of wine held to his lips, observing the receptacle of his newly planted seed standing with her skirts held high and her legs spread wide, allowing the combined juices of the cock and the cunt to trickle from the lips of her still wide-open and well-filled hole. Sticky globules of cloudy-white sap dripping from a wench’s scabbard and falling either to the ground or into the eager open mouth of one of her naked prostrate acolyte companions is an experience so common that I really am no longer able to pay it any great attention.

Spunk.

Cunts.

Cocks.

I love those words. And I love to see them written down, which is a rare occurrence as the few men who have the knowledge of writing are usually holy men, monks and the like. But nevertheless, as unbelievable as it would seem, there in the Prioress’ private rooms I saw the most unusual of books. A real manuscript written in Latin by an educated hand not afraid of the words of condemnation uttered by the lackies of Rome. This book told of the sight of a withdrawn cock, at the moment of ejaculation, spurting a fountain of foaming white sperm high into the air. Of this sperm saturating both the fucker and the fucked with a shower of the glorious elixir of life. It tells of how that elixir, the liquor a free man manufactures, is stored in his bollocks until it is wrenched out as he reaches the climax of his lovemaking. That is where I learned that unless she is desperate to find herself in child, a man’s spurting spunk is ambrosia women would rather have poured into their mouths than their cunts. To taste, to savour and to swallow, that is their desire.

And while they are often not backward in confessing to their masters that a spurting, throbbing cock stuffed deep into their mouths is a dream being fulfilled, there is another more common desire that women find great difficulty in expressing.

And that desire is for pain.

Exquisite nerve-tingling, cunt-paralysing pain. The forbidden pleasure. The nipple-hardening, brain-softening ecstasy that results from the unbridled correction administered by their masters; aided more often than not by others of my kind. We are the keys that open the portals into paradise, the joy bringers who meld desire, suffering and bliss into one glorious whole and offer enlightenment to all womankind. To ask is to receive. No true man would stay his hand and deny a begging maid a thorough thrashing, if that is what she needs to propel her into a state of rapture.

And that is exactly the service that I was performing for Sister Cecelia, although it would be a falsehood to claim that it was she who had actually called for the chastisement. No, that had been the Prioress. It seems that the Abbot was constantly complaining that although she had been installed in the convent for many a month, Sister Cecelia had not as yet made her cunt or arse available to him or his congregation of monks. In fact he had not even so much as cupped her breasts or felt his hot throbbing rod slipping between her cool wet lips into her mouth. Accompanying him into her presence one day, I was privy to their conversation. The Abbot was displeased, that much even I could discern.

“Young blood, that is what I need. A fresh unspoilt maid such as Cecelia skewered on the end of my prong. My mouth suckling her newly-ripe nipples as I slide in and out of her tender body. The smell of her cunt. The taste of it too. Her tongue roving over my shaft. Her pale white fingers ringing my bell-end, wanking me to a spurting climax. God’s teeth woman, these things I need, nay I demand. As Father of this community they are my right and it is your duty to provide them.”

The Abbot’s words were filled with anger, his lust overwhelming his vow of celibacy, as it had done countless times before. But the Prioress’ reply was not all that forthright. I could tell that she was desperately seeking some way out. Some way of not allowing Cecelia’s flesh to be the feast to satisfy his carnal hunger.

“The girl has not been with us all that long and you have all the others of my flock available for your use.”

The Prioress’ words were earnest if not altogether believable.

“And I have used them all time and time again until now most of them no longer rouse the serpent beneath my cassock. Even splayed over the altar, with their legs wide and holes open, many are the times that my rod has not filled with iron enough for me to enter them. But Cecelia, I could fuck her in an instant.”

The Abbot’s reply however was truthfully forthright. But still the Prioress seemed hesitant to grant his demands.

“My Lord Abbot, she is the youngest of our noviciates and not yet ready to be introduced to the beast that hangs between your thighs. I am sure that with more preparation from myself she will in time reach that point. But she is not there yet and knows nothing of sex. That knowledge I must impart to her. I have to teach her through love and gentle persuasion that her sex hole and her arse hole are the keys to eternal bliss and salvation.”

It was then that the light began to dawn on me. It was not as if I had not seen the signs. The Prioress wanted to keep Cecelia solely for herself! And if I had made that deduction, then the Abbot most certainly had too. But he did not know as I did, that Sister Cecelia was not as untouched and pure as the Prioress was implying. With some assistance from me she had been sampling the young nun’s sexual delights for quite some time.

Sometimes it had been in Cecelia’s stark, sparsely furnished cell. At other times in the Prioress’ more opulent quarters and more than once out in the open fields or in the orchard. With her coarse robe pulled up above her waist, I had slashed into Sister Cecelia’s naked buttocks or stung her tits and cunt until she was gushing love juice and well prepared for the Prioress’ attentions.

And the Prioress was nothing if not inventive in her use of the girl. The smaller of the ornate candlesticks were often pushed deep into her most private holes; substitutes for the smooth polished wooden dildos the nuns more usually used on each other. One of her favourite sex games was to lay Cecelia down and insert the candle holder into her tight, dripping cunt and then, squatting astride her, ram the base of the candlestick into her own much slacker hole. Frantically rubbing her erect love kernel, she would bounce up and down, writhing and moaning as she drove herself to a most unholy climax, shrieking out her thanks to the lord when a shuddering orgasm finally raged over her.

Once or twice Cecelia herself was reduced to what was in effect a squirming, palpitating piece of sexual wreckage, as to her what were unfathomable brain-melting sensations, raged within her innocent body and left her convulsing in ecstasy. The Prioress did not seem to be overly concerned on those occasions. The novice’s fulfilment was none of her concern after all. So although she made no effort to ensure that Cecelia gained any satisfaction from their carnal conjunctions, if the girl did actually find some sort of fulfilment, then the Prioress thought that that would help to bind Cecelia to her.

Cecelia’s tongue was also something the Prioress had made great use of, whether ordering her to suck the great projectile nuggets that sprouted from her huge udders or making her lap the sagging, swimming sex lips that dangled from her vulva. The Prioress’ instructions were never anything less than straight to the point.

“Get that tongue in further girl, right up to the root! Make me feel it wriggling deep inside me. Pleasure me well if you wish for my indulgence and protection.”

And Sister Cecelia always obeyed such orders without question. After all this woman was the holy Mother Superior and would never require her to do anything that was unholy in the eyes of God.

If the Abbot had been privy to that secret knowledge then I am certain that his rage would have known no bounds. As it was there was menace in his voice as he continued his angry harassment of the Prioress.

“The girl is over the age of consent, you cannot deny that.”

Furious at the Prioress’ attempts to deter him from his quest to fuck and thrash Cecelia, the Abbot’s angry, accusing words cut her to the core. I could sense the conflict raging within her. She had been savouring the taste of Sister Cecelia’s cunt, and had herself been on the receiving end of her searching tongue and enjoying all manner of sexual delights almost from the moment that she entered the convent. But that was something that, try as she may, the Prioress would not be able to keep secret forever. So eventually, stung by the Abbot’s persistent disgruntled carping, she decided that the time had come for me to introduce Cecelia to the ultimate fulfilment that her continuing virginity denied her.

After all, that was my only reason for being in the convent. Cecelia was the youngest daughter of a great lord, and as such had been very guardedly kept a virgin until she became of an age when she could be consigned to the care of the Sisters of Mercy; that being her father’s bound duty to the crown and the holy Church of Rome. The lord knew full well that his offspring was being delivered into a life of sexual slavery, but that was the way of the world. And being a prolific and enthusiastic wielder of his child maker, he had daughters to spare. One given over to the debased usage of the monks was neither here nor there. And if it ensured the continued absolution of his many sins, then the loss of a hardly-noticed female product of his loins was a small price to pay.

And that absolution had been guaranteed to him by the Abbot, provided that Cecelia provided good service to the cocks of himself and his hooded underlings. Although of course he made no admission of the fact, the lord was not entirely certain that she would provide the required satisfaction. And although I was not particularly happy with the situation, that was the reason that when he had her delivered to the convent I was sent along with her. I had given him many years of exemplary service and he trusted me beyond question. I was to be the enforcer. The rod that bent her to her new master’s will. If she proved not to be fully pliant and did not live up to the Abbot’s expectations, then I was to do what I do best - thrash her into willing submission.

And so the scene was set. The witnesses were assembled in the chapel according to tradition, the monks on one side of the aisle and the sisters on the other. There was no moon in the pitch blackness of the overcast sky of night and except for intermittent flashes of forked lightning, not the faintest ray of light filtered through the stained glass of the windows to offer even the slightest natural illumination. The wild wind battered the thick stone walls of the chapel and thunder the like of which I had never experienced before, shook the building to its foundations. The atmosphere was eerily tense and expectant and the air lay heavy and thick with the sooty smoke of the ceremonial candles; their flickering yellow glow fighting a losing battle with the gloom that crept into every corner.

Standing by the altar, with me once again by his side, the Abbot impatiently awaited Sister Cecelia’s arrival.

“God’s teeth,” I heard him mutter. “Am I to be kept waiting ‘til doomsday. Where is that confounded woman?”

The Prioress, for it was she to whom he was referring, entered the chapel at that very moment. A heavy silver cross was held high in her left hand and a leash of plaited bull hide clasped tightly in her right. Attached to the other end of the leash was a wide leather collar, studded with iron spikes and that collar was clamped tightly around the pure white skin of Sister Cecelia’s neck.

A Sister Cecelia whom I had never dreamt could have existed.

Towed by the leash, her hair brushed and falling loose, her lips coloured red and with her wrists manacled behind her back, she followed several paces behind the Prioress as she made her way towards the altar and the Abbot.

And what a sight she was. Prepared with the greatest of care and attention especially for this momentous occasion by the Prioress herself, the shapeless nun’s habit had been ripped from her back, revealing the gleaming, oiled and sweet-scented body of an angel. Stripped naked, her breasts stood full and proud, with broad hazelnut areola encircling enormous nipples of mouth-watering perfection. Perhaps it was the biting cold teasing them into erection, but be that as it may, those nipples were the most perfect in Christendom. Her waist was slender, her hips curved and she had an arse that could make a man weep for the want of sinking his weapon into it. Loins, long and slender, led a watcher’s gaze to the succulent mound of her sex that lay between them. It can be justly said that there was not a single human being in the chapel whose eye fell upon her, male or female, whose pulse did not grow faster as carnal desire swept through his or her lusting body.

Halting before the altar and the Abbot, in a faltering voice the Prioress turned to Sister Cecelia.

“The sin must be thrashed from your body, your soul cleansed and your virginity sacrificed to God before you may be accepted fully into our order. That has been the way for centuries and all of us here, including myself have undergone this ritual to prepare ourselves for admittance to The Lord’s Holy Paradise. The Abbot is The Lord’s representative here in our community and so the duty of preparing you for Divine acceptance falls upon him.”

I have been on this Earth for countless long years, sometimes maintaining an association with ‘The Church’ and sometimes not, but I knew full well that the Prioress’ words were false. They were just a means to convince a naïve young girl to surrender her holes, her mouth and her all to the carnal desires of a lust-filled Abbot and his equally sexually avaricious cohort of iniquitous, sin-filled monks. Nevertheless, under the Abbot’s direction, I thrashed and whacked, feeling her taut flesh ripple under the impact as every full-blooded stroke drove the breath from her lungs and the screams from her mouth. And the joy was more than I am able to relate. For me as well as for her. This was the reason for my very existence and I drank in her every moan, screech and cry of ecstasy until I felt intoxicated by my power. Full of exhilaration I revelled in the delight of just being what I am: the instrument of correction and obedience. Once more I could not go wrong. Despite the devilish cold I was bringing the understanding of Man’s power and dominion over women to yet another welcoming mind.

And a true joybringer I proved to be yet again as her passions rose with every slice into her meaty haunches, every cut across the Venusian mounds of her breasts and every drive between her spread thighs. Droplets of her musky juices splattered onto her belly, drove themselves down the insides of her legs and even flew wildly into the cold air, some falling upon the Abbot’s hard and straining cock. Reaching down, he wiped them from his manhood with circled fingers and raising them to his mouth, savoured the pungent, heady taste of her cunt. The jolt that imparted to his cock was impossible to miss and I knew the time was near when he would be unable to restrain himself any further and would leap upon her with the sexual fervour of a demented devil.

I knew him of old and ‘man of the church’ or otherwise, when it came to fucking, he was as insatiable and demonic as the Devil himself. And so I had to make the very utmost of my final moments of pleasure, doubling my energies and inventiveness to ensure that Sister Cecelia would never forget the magic moment when I delivered her enlightenment and she was presented to ‘God’s chosen cock’.

That moment arrived far sooner than I would have wished. The Abbot suddenly thrust me aside and with his cock clasped into his fist like a battering ram, lunged at Sister Cecelia and speared her with one giant thrust into her soaking cunt. As she lay backwards over the altar, her legs spread wide, his throbbing, pulsing weapon drove half its length into her at his first assault. Her shocked but exultant scream bounced from bare stone wall to bare stone wall, echoing the length and breadth of the crowded chapel.

At his second thrust, his ramrod completely disappeared into her clasping vagina and he fell on top of her, ramming and reaming with the abandoned wildness of a lust-crazed bull servicing a hapless cow. And what a cow Sister Cecelia proved herself to be. A human cow, begging and screaming to be fucked insensible.

“Fuck me harder master. Hurt me please! The Prioress is right, only a merciless ravaging by a Holy prick and the blessed pain of the sacred cane can purify my soul. Oh, please fuck me ‘til you have fucked away each and every one of my sins.”

Her udders heaved beneath his fat, sweating body as only too eager to grant her desperate plea, he clasped his hands under her buttocks and pulled her even further onto his over-used, wart-covered cock. Oblivious to his wrinkled ugliness and rampant with sexual hunger, she dug her fingernails into the flabby flesh of his back and clamped her legs around his waist in an effort to ensure that the solid rod of throbbing gristle stuck deep inside her could not be pulled from its joyous host until it had fucked her into the heaven she had been promised.

Oh how I wished that it was me anchored tight in her foaming cunt, her love juices pouring over me as I wallowed in that mystical tunnel of desire, soaking up every drop of her flooding come. But alas that was not to be. The Abbot was fucking it and he was going to keep on fucking it until he had fucked it senseless. So all I could do was watch. Watch every plunge of his shagstick in and out of her honeypot as I fell deeper and deeper into a well of misery as I saw her being stoked up into a brazier of fiery dementia.

How a repulsive ale-soaked barrel of lard such as the Abbot could reduce a maiden as fair as Cecelia to a writhing wreck of carnal hunger still remains a mystery to me. And hungry she was. Even after he finally reached a grunting, breathless climax and I saw his fat arse jerking uncontrollably between her wide-spread thighs as he shot spurt after spurt of hot spunk deep into her hole, she still wanted more.

“Oh Lord Abbot, do not stop now. Please! Keep on fucking me. Sodomise me. Stick your cock in my mouth. Do anything you want, but please do not stop.”

The words were gasped out as she fought for breath, seemingly hardly able to speak as the tremors engulfed her body. And there was more.

“Shoot your spunk on my belly. Shoot it into my mouth and up my arse. Wipe it over my face and dry your holy shaft in my hair. Oh happy me, never in my most secret of dreams could I have hoped that service to the Church would bring such blissful delight.”

It was then that a long recognised realism swept over me. Women are nothing but strumpets. Whores! Any stiff cock that is able to propel them into orgasm is welcome to burrow into their most private of holes. They care nothing for devotion. Genuine feelings harboured by their most fervent admirers are cast aside when they feel a boiling cock reaming them into orgasm. And the Abbot was doing just that. She thought of me not. And as one of her most ardent devotees, I reeled in misery as I was forced to accept that I meant nothing to her. If I had possessed a heart then it would have been broken asunder.

Such is my miserable existence.

Broken hearts are not for such as me. I have specific duties to perform and perform them I do to the absolute best of my abilities. Mayhap that is the reason that I prove to be so viciously extreme in my chastisement of innocent flesh. If I cannot enjoy the sexual pleasure that I induce, that being left to whatever master I am serving, then I may as well enjoy to the full the sight of writhing, tortured flesh as I lash into it.

And enjoy it I did.

The Abbot would have carried on fucking and buggering her no matter what, but the wild abandon of her pleas for more seemed to spur him on to even greater excess. And for that he once again was in need of my assistance.

Pulling his malodorous knob from her dripping sex purse, he pushed his podgy paws under her hip bones and heaved her over onto her belly, before dropping her face down over the altar. Gasping, he turned to the Prioress.

“She loves the cock. And she loves the cane. This wench is greatly to my liking and I am going to make sure that she gets her fill of both.”

Then with his straining shaft swinging hither and thither in front of the paunch of his belly, he set me to work once more.

With her arse thrust high and the juices of love, the Abbot’s as well as hers, running down the insides her thighs, Sister Cecelia was as near perfect for a thrashing as perfect can be. Under the Abbot’s direction, firstly I lashed her buttocks. Hard! Weal after weal layered itself over the fiery striations I had inflicted earlier. Squeal after ecstatic squeal burst from her mouth, together with the foulest of words. Words that I would never have believed such a previously delicate and innocent virgin would have any knowledge of.

And the Abbot was not wrong. She did love the cane. It seemed as if she just could not get enough and so he directed me to her vagina. He widened her legs to give me easier access, his eyes glistening in appreciation as I whipped up between them to land a numbing strike to her vulva. Still hanging open, wet and sticky from the Abbot’s frantic shagging, her sex lips sucked and squelched as if she were trying to permanently imprison the miraculous thrill of my strike within her lusting hole.

I pulled free and struck again, once more sinking between her dripping labia. Her squeals turned to howls as I continued to punish her. Strike after strike, howl after howl until she suddenly stiffened and pushing her arse backwards to meet my next strike, she shook and jerked as if possessed by a demon. Wailing and praising the Lord she lost all control as the most raging orgasm I have ever been privy to witness overwhelmed her.

Ululating, grunting, laughing and crying all at the same time, she collapsed against the altar. Her trembling legs seemed to lose all their strength and she slid down to cold floor and lay in a twitching heap of arms and legs.

“Well done my friend. Without any doubt, you have surpassed yourself. You serve me well.”

Much appreciated as they were, those words from the Abbot came as a great surprise. Ill-tempered as he was, words of praise from him were very few and far between. But I was not allowed to bask in my glory for long.

“Now once again it is the turn of the cock!”

Clamping both hands around his pulsing shaft, he turned around in a full circle, showing the monstrous beast to the entire congregation. Loosening one hand, he made a great show of pointing down and drawing the eyes of the assembly to its juice-and-spunk-covered length.

“This Cock!”

Those two words were almost shouted. Not only the sin of lust but also the sin of gluttony was sweeping over him; his dissolute senses feasting to the full on Sister Cecelia’s physical pain and sexual downfall. Once again he addressed the Prioress.

“Get her back up on her feet. I cannot fuck her while she is lying on the floor like some swooning delicate lady of the Court.”

Summoning the assistance of two of the sisters, the Prioress hauled Sister Cecelia up from the floor and planted her on unsteady feet before the Abbot.

“Now girl, I am going to give you the most wondrous of fuckings. The fucking that you have been begging for. Prepare yourself and savour it well. But first tell me again how much you desire me to screw my holy prong into your undeserving cunt.”

And so she did, using almost the same words as when she had first begged him to fuck her arse and her cunt. The Abbot urged her on to ever more extreme demands until finally he signalled her to stop.

“Enough. I think we all know now how much you yourself delight in the sins of the flesh. So now I am going to grant your wishes. As my first gift, my cock will attend to your arse, and believe me that will be something you will never forget. Your shitter will welcome me as Mother Mary welcomed the Angel. And after I am done, you will believe forever that the hole in your backside was placed there by God purely to satisfy the carnal needs of men.

“Cunts are one thing: spunk shot deep into them more often than not results in the production of one more unwelcome howling infant. On the other hand, spunk shot deep into an arse allows for no such outcome. And for a man the pleasure is just the same, in fact even more so because arse fucking is strictly forbidden by the scriptures.

“And when I have spunked my all into you and can spunk no more, I am going to string you up from that rafter above you and call upon all of my flock to give you the beatings and fuckings of all lifetimes. No woman will ever have been fucked as much as you. One after another they will fuck you until the spunk runs in rivers from your holes and your mouth. Is that not cause for rejoicing?”

It was not.

That much I could tell by the shocked look on Sister Cecelia’s face. No answer passed her lips.

“Come now girl! What is wrong? You pleaded for the cock, did you not? You begged to be fucked again and again and so be transported to paradise. We all heard you. So once more I ask you: what is wrong?”

Sister Cecelia’s voice was weak and faltering as she finally confessed her fears.

“My Lord Abbot, there are so many of them. I am afraid they will hurt me.”

“That is possible. But you like pain. You have told me as much. And the pleasure that their cocks bring you will numb your body to the hurt. Now, rejoice in what is to come. My blessings be upon you.”

Seemingly in some response to his words, the Abbot’s ramrod swelled to unbelievable dimensions as he pushed her forwards and ordering her to touch her toes, drove it deep into her backside. Rocking on her feet against his inhuman onslaught, she fought to keep from being toppled over as he thrust again and again into her arse. Grunting, sweating and cursing, he withdrew his throbbing lance from her clasping shithole, before ever and again plunging back in with a determination that beggared belief. The Abbot was a man on a mission. A mission to fuck Cecelia into a state of existence so wonderful that afterwards she would never think twice about obeying any sexual demand he or any of his disciples made upon her.

I cannot describe my feelings as I watched him and his cohort fuck, beat and thrash Sister Cecelia incessantly for what seemed, and probably was, hours. Her cunt, her mouth and her arse were filled time and time again with rock hard cocks, candles and all manner of penetrative devices.

And of course, oceans of spunk!

It ran down her thighs. It dripped from her nose. It emerged in frothy streams from between her lips, even when her mouth was full of cock; the spunk having been spurted into her by the previous violator. She shook, she shuddered and she screamed when she was able - sometimes in torment, but ever and again in the ecstasy of orgasm. And she never again begged for mercy - she loved every moment.

All she wanted was more.

More cock.

More teeth sinking into her breasts and biting her nipples.

More monks spurting their seed over her naked body.

More pain!

And all I wished for was to be able to join in. To be able to experience the same communion of ecstasy that they all were. But that was not possible. Why? Why must I always be alone? Excluded. It was me who had stoked her into a raging hunger for sexual fulfilment. Me who had driven her to beg to be fucked. Me who had paved the way for the Abbot to indulge in any and every perversion he desired.

It was all so unfair.

I was drowning in desolation as I finally realised that I would not be called upon again to aid in their unholy rampage. And rampage they did. All of them. As I had been, the nuns had been driven to desperation by the frenzied sight before their eyes. They wanted to be fucked as well. Robes fell in heaps all over the chapel as they wrenched off their coverings and ran to the rampant monks. Cocks stuffed themselves deep into drenching cunts. Mouths clamped around other spurting shafts and an unbelievable orgy of sexual excess erupted to fill the chapel with a screaming, wailing and thrashing throng of sinful and depraved holy children of God.

They were so taken up with each other that Sister Cecelia found herself abandoned and without a cock stuck into any of her holes. But not for long! The Abbot saw to that. Once again he pounced and drove his warty weapon deep into her overflowing love casket.

Then suddenly without warning, the heavy doors of the chapel burst asunder and a rearing steed of war, clad in full battle armour with a unicorn’s horn of steel strapped around his forehead thundered through them. On his back he carried a mighty knight, his own armour covered by a black cloak with an eight-pointed Maltese cross sewn on to it; the battle gown of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem. Even though his face was hidden by his lowered visor, just one glance was sufficient for me to recognise who he was: Sister Cecelia’s lord and father, Sir Mortimer D’Arcy DuPont!

So now he had adopted the guise of a Hospitaller. At the time he delivered Cecelia and myself to the convent, his uniform had been a white tunic with a red latin cross on the back; the insignia of The Poor knights of Christ - the Knights Templar - who were anything other than poor. But in reality I knew that he was neither of those things, he was altogether more special; the head of ‘The Brotherhood of The Sons of Adam’, a mysterious secret organisation that was the hidden power behind Kings and Emperors the world over and in reality had ruled the Earth since its creation.

With his broadsword held aloft in just one hand, Sir Mortimer urged the warhorse down the aisle towards the Abbot and Sister Cecelia and just for a moment I could have sworn that the huge, wild-eyed stallion snorted fire from his nostrils. Pulling his dripping cock from Sister Cecelia’s juicing, clasping cunt, the Abbot pushed her into the arms of the Prioress, trying to find a means of escape. But there was none.

Reining his mount to a scrambling halt, the knight levelled his sword to the Abbot’s throat, forcing him back up against the altar. A terrible heart-stopping roar arose from behind his visor, filling all present with dread before he called upon God for help as with a voice of thunder he chanted a ritual invocation.

“Demon spawn of the Devil, I order you back from whence you came; back to the fires of Hades, back to Lucifer your master. Back I say, be gone and take your satanic followers with you.”

Even now, all these years later I still cannot believe what I saw next. Letting out a hideous shriek, the Abbot seemed to shrink inside his cassock, putrefied flesh peeling from his face and body until just a skull and bare bones remained. And these too did not remain for long, crumbling into dust before the horrified eyes of the Sisters; for apart from me they were now alone, every single one of the congregation of monks having suffered the same fate as the Abbot.

Raising his visor, Sir Mortimer’s piercing gaze fell upon the Prioress and his ravaged, naked daughter. But his words were not what I expected to hear. The rescue of Sister Cecelia had been the last thing on his mind and thinking back I realise that I should not have been surprised, for he had sent her to the convent precisely for the purpose of servicing the Abbot and the monks.

“Mother Superior, I beg your forgiveness for my desecration of your chapel, but it could not be helped. My fellow knights have brought to my ears disturbing tales of weary travellers being offered rest and succour in the monastery only to be set upon, robbed and subjected to all manner of hideous sexual perversions before being murdered by the monks.

“So I came to find out the truth and in the monastery I discovered the true extent of their evil. I found the black altar and all the paraphernalia of devil worship that these evil beings used in their glorification of Satan. I could not allow them to carry on with their foul doings and by my vows as a Christian knight, it was my duty to send them to hell where they belong. This I have done.

“No blame lies with you and your nuns for I truly believe that you had no knowledge of what was happening so close to you. You may carry on in peace with no fear of interference from me.”

Sister Cecelia had been sheltering in the arms of the Prioress and it was she whom he addressed next.

“Cecelia, you are no longer a daughter of mine but a daughter of the church. However now that I see you naked, abused and distraught, with the Abbot’s sperm dripping from your box, I offer you a choice. If you so wish you may return with me to the shelter of the castle, or you may remain here. I offer you this choice once only, so decide wisely.”

The Prioress held her close, lightly stroking her breasts and one hand slipping between her thighs to caress her leaking love hole as Sister Cecelia made her reply.

“I thank you my father for allowing me to determine my own future. I am content here with the Prioress and my sister nuns and by your grace I will stay with them.”

“So be it. Now I depart and possibly may never set eyes on you again. Live long and be happy.”

And then, it was to me that his attention was attracted. I was no longer needed in the convent, he told the Prioress and he was therefore returning me to his own household. Joy overwhelmed me. I was to be set free once again to enjoy the magnificence of knightly life and I was not sorry to be leaving, although I did feel a small pang of sadness at parting from Sister Cecelia.

As we left the chapel I saw that she appeared to be suffering no such sorrows, for she was passionately embracing the Prioress, her tongue eagerly searching for the Prioress’ own and her hands squeezing and fondling her ample breasts.

Yes, I thought, Sister Cecelia will be happy here.

As we thundered out through the chapel doors, and I have never known why, I felt a great compulsion to take one last look back into the haven of contentment that I had enjoyed while being responsible for Sister Cecelia’s discipline and continuing submissive behaviour. And for the second time that fateful night, I was shocked to the core. The chapel was alive with the wailing of tortured souls; banshee wails that were shrieking from the mouths of the sisters. Sisters who were now swooping through the chapel on flapping leathery wings.

And the shrieks were awful blood-curdling screams that I had last experienced one hundred or more years earlier when I had been in the service of Sir Mortimer’s grandfather and along with him had been included on a mission to free the Holy Land from the Muslim hordes. It is said by those who falsely claim to know, that the Knights Templar found the Holy Grail hidden away in a secret chamber beneath the temple in Jerusalem; but I know that that is not so, for I had seen then the same awful thing that I was seeing at that moment - hideous, blood sucking apparitions from Hell.

Vampires!

Monstrous creations of Satan with whom The Brotherhood had been in constant battle since time immemorial, until in one final night of slaughter they believed that they had finally rid the Earth of the foul creatures. But they had been wrong. It was not only a secret chamber that lay beneath the temple but connected to it were a series of catacombs, and in those dark, dank surroundings the Templars discovered a nest of surviving blood drinkers. And it was the task of destroying those vile creatures of the night that kept the knights occupied for so long. They did nothing to dispel the rumours that they had discovered the Holy Grail as it kept the inquisitive from probing too deeply into their affairs. No one must be allowed to find out that vampires were loose in the Lord’s Holy city and so they let it be known that keeping the Grail safe was their Holy responsibility. Anyone trying to find their way into the chamber was threatened with death. After a few summary executions, the lesson was well learnt and very few ever again tried to do so.

One by one, the evil monsters were hunted down and executed by plunging a stake through its heart until once again they believed that none of them remained. Christians could once more sleep soundly in their beds. But now it seemed as if that were not so, for there they were, before my very eyes!

And worst of all, as Sir Mortimer urged his steed onwards, I saw the Prioress lift her head away from Sister Cecelia’s searching mouth. Her lips curled back and two razor-sharp fangs dug deep into Sister Cecelia’s neck; her jugular spurting a fountain of the scarlet elixir of life. But what could I do? I am mute, incapable of speech and so I was carried away back the castle by an unknowing Sir Mortimer. A Sir Mortimer who apart from his many other duties, was pledged to fight and destroy those evil, blood sucking, soul-gathering creatures of the night that now had enslaved his daughter and consigned her to an infinity of wretchedness. Like them, she would ever onwards have to dedicate her life, not to the glory of God, but to the never-ending quest for fresh human blood.

Falconer is a unique talent who delights in taking the genre into new territory every time he writes. He is also one of the very few writers; Francine Whittaker being the only other who springs to mind, who can successfully write male dom and fem dom. Falconer has also written;

His fem dom titles are: