Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
My mother’s decision to send me away to the Sisters of Eden Convent School to complete my education was made, she claimed, for entirely altruistic reasons; to save my soul and to instil the ‘necessary discipline’ to enable a young woman to survive and flourish in a harsh and increasingly immoral world. However, as she began to enthusiastically strip bare my wardrobe and feed items of my clothing and other essentials into a wide-mouthed and hungry silver-stucco Mossman, it seemed to me that it was also a decision which, coincidentally, dovetailed comfortably with her own interests. I was not wrong, as I found out later. Within hours of peremptorily depositing my belongings and I on the steps of my new alma mater, my mother had moved her new boyfriend and his irrepressible libido into her now perfect love-nest, and began learning, in my absence, to flourish in an increasingly immoral world. The Sisters of Eden School nestles inconspicuously between two sparsely populated villages in west Dorset, a few miles off the main road between Crewkerne and Maiden Newton. The main school building, which dated from the late medieval period, was a rambling, slate-grey edifice with imposing, obese, castellated turrets flanking the main entrance. It was, on any view, aesthetically stunning, although it still comfortably managed to convey a cold austerity that was in keeping with the ascetic regimen that the sisters rigorously enforced. To the front, a phalanx of pyramid yews trimmed obsessively to almost geometrical perfection guarded the approach; to the rear, an idyllic Italianesque cloister garden, complete with ornate stone water fountains, created a mystical, almost magical, ambience. After classes, many of the sisters would spend their time there in quiet contemplation, although this particular piece of man-made heaven was strictly out-of-bounds to the students. Of course, girls will be girls. From the outset it was clear that the virtually irrebuttable presumption of the sisters was that every girl who walked through the weighty moral doors of the school was a morally bankrupt whore-in-training and needed treating as such. The gravest punishments were reserved for the slightest infraction of the golden rule that all mention of boys, relationships with boys, communication or attempts at communication with boys or even thinking about boys was strictly forbidden. In spite of my Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because of it, paradoxically I had nonconformist blood pulsing through my veins and occasionally decided to push these boundaries. However, as a result I soon found myself pushing table tennis balls with my nose around an ice-cold gymnasium floor at five o’clock in the morning, on all fours, whilst being continuously and ferociously barked at by Sister Felicity, a cold-faced forty-something who for a long time I suspected of having been the victim of an unfortunate heart-removal operation at birth. I needed fun, but I soon realised that such pre-crepuscular torment was far from it. It became apparent to me early on that the regime was designed to starve overheating, hormonal young women of male influence, and in so doing to attempt to deny them of what the sisters saw as their ‘corrupt sexual urges’. During each and every long term, the only contact we ever had with anything resembling a male was during confessions. These took place once a week with Father Oliver, a priest who parachuted into the school for the purpose, and who none of us ever actually saw but kaçak iddaa only heard through the cocoa-coloured latticework of the confessional grille. I realised early that Father Oliver had a particular proclivity for wanting full and frank disclosure of ‘sexual sins’ above all others. Having discovered that the only consequence of breaching the ‘golden rule’ during confession was the repetition of a few words that I didn’t really believe in, this weekly event soon became a chocolate box of playful mischief for me, and spared many cold mornings in a freezing gymnasium. Looking back, I can now see that my confessional experiences at Sisters of Eden fell into three distinct phases. At first, and exhibiting more than a little naïveté, even at sixteen, I would recount in detail what was essentially my fabricated desire for boys of my own age, and how my body responded to thoughts of them. I would go into ever more graphic detail about, for example, how I wanted to unfasten their trousers, take out their cocks and suck them. I would embroider increasingly elaborate ‘desires’ from the depths of my febrile imagination, which sometimes took the entire week between confessions to hone to perfection. I gradually became aware that as the fantasies I was relating become more graphic and lurid, noises were coming from the other side of the thin grille that were clearly those of a man in the throes of surreptitious sexual excitement. It was obvious to me what Father Oliver was actually doing and, if I am perfectly honest, I found the power I could exercise over him in those few minutes each week more than a little intoxicating. After a while I decided to broaden my imagination. For example, on occasion I would tell Father Oliver about how I would lie in the warm confines of my bed at night and pleasure myself. What I discovered, however, was that his furtive fumblings and obvious self-gratification in the confessional were almost absent unless I was ‘confessing’ about young men, and slowly the truth opened its wide jaws; Father Oliver was fantasising about cocks, rather than the nubile, playful sixteen year old who was lying her heart out about them. I wasn’t in any way disappointed, although the discovery of this kernel of reality precipitated phase two. This particular phase demanded the exercise of skill, timing and the careful utilisation of everything I had discovered in phase one, and if executed perfectly always made me feel delighted. I recall with crystal clarity one particular instance of this. “Tell me, Leanne, have you had any sinful sexual thoughts since your last confession?” “Yes, Father, I have.” “About a young man?” “Yes, Father, about a young man.” “Tell me about it, Leanne.” “Well, I imagined I was lying asleep in my bed at night, and when I woke up he was kneeling astride me. He was totally naked, Father.” “Oh, and what was he doing?” “He was holding his hard length in his fingers and working it up and down, Father. It was covered in this smooth, shiny cream that was oozing from the top of it.” At this point, I heard a rustle of heavy cloth and knew that Father Oliver was lifting his cassock and starting to touch himself. “I see. Describe his long, hard thing for me, Leanne.” “Well, Father, it was thick and long, with veins like small purple rivers running up and down it. It was twitching and jerking in his fingers as he stroked it. And at the base he had these two round things, like soft, slightly hairy eggs, that seemed heavy and full.” kaçak bahis Behind the screen I could hear Father Oliver’s breathing building, and a rhythmic, moist slapping sound. “And what happened then, Leanne?” he panted. “Tell me about this long, hard thing.” “He was rubbing it, harder and harder, and becoming more and more excited, Father. Then, suddenly…” I stopped deliberately. “Go on, Leanne,” he implored, clearly impatient and more than a little agitated. I paused a short while longer, for effect. “Well, then…his hard thing just came off in his hand, Father, like it had broken off.” I could almost hear the blood drain from Father Oliver’s body at this turn of events. “And underneath he had these folds of flesh, rather like mine down there. I looked up his torso and two swollen breasts with engorged nipples had grown. And then this delicious wine started pouring from his vagina, which I began to drink.” “I see,” said Father Oliver, his arousal by now becoming a rapidly fading memory. “And then, Father, the long, hard thing in his hand turned into a shiny, metal vibrating thing, which he brought down between my legs and…” “I think our time is nearly up, Leanne,” he growled. Just after I turned seventeen I became consciously aware of my first real sexual attraction to other women. I had noticed that one of the sisters who took us for physical instruction, Sister Theresa, who I estimated was probably around twenty-five, seemed to take great interest in me when it came to changing and showering after hockey or softball. Although she was as cold and remote as most of the other sisters, something in her hungry hazel eyes seemed to burrow inside me and create the most delicious tingling sensation between my legs. She would watch intensely as I soaped and lathered my breasts and between my legs. On more than one occasion I allowed my fingers to dwell provocatively on the puffy lips of my vagina and drag them up my slit and onto the sensitive bud, the pleasures of which I was just beginning to discover. The third phase in my confessional experience with Father Oliver began at around the same time as these feelings rose within me. My confessions actually became far more open and honest. I would tell Father Oliver about my rapidly intensifying desire for other women. The lion’s share of the pleasure in this was in knowing that he was actually deriving no pleasure himself from it. He would tell me that I was in danger of falling into the fires of hell if I continued along that path. My heart told me that the very furnaces of hell could not be as hot as the fire that burned between my legs every time I became aroused thinking of another woman’s fingers and tongue pleasuring me to climax. I continued to give up each and every one of my lesbian fantasies in the most colourful and vivid detail every single week, regardless of the ‘tuts’ and judgement of, quite literally, a hypocritical old self-pleasurer. It was also at around that time that I suddenly, and rather surprisingly, found many of the sisters becoming significantly less abrasive with me. In fact, in my final year, Sister Felicity gave me the news that they had decided to make me ‘Head Girl’; an honour which I received with some confusion and deeply mixed emotions. I knew nothing about the Bible, my prayer life was non-existent, and with my sex drive and feelings towards other women beginning to radiate from between my legs almost continually I knew that the multiplicity of my sins made illegal bahis me the least qualified young woman in the upper sixth form for that particular role. About four weeks before my final exams, I was in the sixth-form dormitory when one of the sisters approached me and said that Sister Felicity wanted to see me that evening after vespers. Most of the girls knew that being summoned by Sister Felicity was not normally a positive sign. She was responsible for every disciplinary matter that arose in the school, and usually dealt with it in the harshest possible manner. More than that, I had never really forgotten the cold mornings in the gym, scraping all the skin off my knees and being called a “disgusting little harlot”, among other things. It was, then, with some trepidation that I approached her study and knocked lightly on the door later that evening. When I entered, Sister Felicity was not alone. She was sat on one of three imposing vintage brown leather armchairs, with Sister Theresa sat on another. The study itself was lit in a low, flickering, pulsing gaslight, lending it an almost ghostly, golden-yellow tint. A large, ornate Persian rug was spread on the floor in front of their feet “Ah, Leanne. Come in and sit down, please,” Sister Felicity said with a slight snap in her voice. I walked over nervously to where she and Sister Theresa were sat and lowered myself into the third, sumptuous armchair, taking care to smooth the back of my navy blue skirt against the back of my legs with the palms of my hands as I did so. “Tell me, Leanne,” she continued, “Have you decided what you are going to do when you have completed your education at Sisters of Eden?” The truth was I hadn’t given anywhere near enough thought to it. I had meandered through most of the previous few months with some vague notion of spending some time travelling, possibly in South America, but with no concrete plans. “No, Sister Felicity, not really” I replied. “I have really just been concentrating on trying to do as well as I can in my final exams here before making any firm decision about the future.” “I see,” she continued. “Well, I was wondering whether you had given any thought to becoming a novice here.” Sister Felicity’s suggestion was so unexpected and, frankly, absurd that it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into spontaneous laughter, but I managed to mask it; or at least I thought I had. “Are you smiling, Leanne? What do you find so amusing?” “Oh no, Sister Felicity,” I replied. “I am just a little shocked that you might consider me a young woman of such pious virtue to merit such a possibility.” “I don’t, Leanne.” “Pardon me?” I said, more than a little confused. “If I didn’t make myself clear first time, Leanne, I don’t consider you a young woman of ‘pious virtue’, as you so quaintly put it. In fact, I consider you quite the opposite.” She looked across at Sister Theresa, who was sat in the chair next to her, exchanging half-smiles. “What do you mean, Sister Felicity?” I had already asked the question before I could reel in my tongue sufficiently to give my mind some thinking room. “What I mean is that Sister Theresa and I know perfectly well what kind of young woman you actually are. You are the kind of young woman who has an insatiable, burning desire to have sex with other women, aren’t you Leanne.” “Oh no, Sister Felicity, honestly” I lied feverishly. “And the thing is, Leanne,” she continued, totally ignoring my futile protestations, “I know that you don’t have the slightest ounce of shame about those desires that keep your fingers buried inside your panties in your bed at night, under cover of darkness, do you?” She was absolutely right.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32