Page 6 of The Fallen

Her lips turn up into a soft smile. “This is not a punishment, dear child. Merely a form of protection. You may speak to the other Sisters as you normally would. I leave you to your rest.”

Unfortunately, as the door clicks behind me, I find that rest is the very last thing I want or need. Frantically, I pace about the room, my fingers trembling as I try to make sense of the cacophony in my mind. Storming over to my armoire, I wrench open the door and remove my habit, taking great care not to take out my anxiety on the fabric.

I slide into a soft nightgown and pad back over to the bed, determined to take the rest I’m ordered. But I cannot sleep. I cannot get comfortable. Even now, my thighs ache and burn as an odd liquid drips from between my thighs.

Being raised within a cloistered order from the time of my infancy, such things have never happened at my old convent. Not like this. I have no reference, no ability to understand what it is my body is enduring.

Pulling up the hem of my nightgown, I slide my fingers down my thighs, kneading the sore flesh as I’ve done on countless occasions. Unfortunately, the ache does not subside. Deep down, I know that’s not the part of me causing discomfort.

And so, I spread my thighs and touch myself, caressing the intimate flesh that aches and burns in a relentless need. The moment I graze my fingertips across the raised bundle of nerves, my body bows up. Pleasure surges through me, robbing me of my breath, much like the Father Confessor.

What in heaven have I discovered?

Chapter Three

Sister Emily Agnes

For a moment, I lie deathly still, listening as the Sisters go about their work. They sing softly under their breaths, and for a moment, I long to join them. Camaraderie, a shared purpose, a desire to serve God. Yet, all I can think about is the agony coursing through my veins.

Warning bells ring out in my mind as I bring my fingers between my thighs once more. This is wrong. It has to be. And yet, I have no memory of the Nuns I lived with lecturing me about such actions. I’ve never heard anyone ask for prayers because they rubbed out an ailment.

No one here has even spoken of such. They certainly have not warned me or given me any preemptive admonition. With everything else they’ve told me, you’d think something like this would come up.

The main thing giving me pause is the sense of euphoria slithering over my body, twisting and contorting it until I’m breathless on the bed. More of that strange fluid seeps out from my private area, nearly soaking my hand and the bed. I run my fingers through it, scooping it up and using it as an oil to rub myself with far more precision.

Strangled moans catch at the back of my throat as I slam my hand over my mouth and continue to caress my slick flesh. Pleasure floods my system, overloading my synapses as I bow up, my inner thighs quaking as I strain toward some unknown precipice.

The sensations continue to build, twisting my insides as I continue to rub the ailing part of my body. Who knew I was carrying so much tension in such a small spot? Yet, with each stroke, the stress of today simply melts until all that consumes me is the need to press forward.

There is no Father Confessor. There is no unholy yearning or longing. In this moment, there is no God. Only man and the need to forget the world for a few precious moments.

My head aches as I scrunch my eyes closed even tighter. Colors spark behind my eyelids as lurid gasps flit past my lips. Deep inside, my inner walls clench and release, as if needing something more, desiring something else. The ache travels from my apex a bit lower.

Whimpering, I lower my other hand, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out and worrying the other Sisters. I slip the very edge of my fingertip into my opening, groaning as the outer wall tightens around me, fluttering over the slim digit like the kiss of a butterfly’s wings.

Should I continue? Should I see what happens if I caress even deeper? Besides, if God made our bodies, He made every part, even the ones that feel so good. In other, far stricter orders, the Nuns and Sisters are not allowed to partake in things that feel or taste good, but here, it’s different.

So many new things. Ice cream tastes like heaven. Waffles, pancakes, baked goods of all sorts are now permissible. Surely this is permissible as well, seeing as it’s assisting my body and making me grow far less restless and ill at ease.

Since touching myself, massaging these fractious nerves, I am finally relaxing for the first time since arriving. Or, I guess more aptly, since the first time I saw Father Draven. The fitful energy forcing me to pace at all hours of the night dissolves as I ease my finger in even further.

Unfortunately, all that does is make the twisting even more intense. The instant the handsome Father Confessor enters my mind, he’s all I can think about. Behind my closed eyelids, I watch him as he walks about, flashing that devastating smile that never fails to make my heart skip a beat.

The other Sisters seem to be immune. But then, they have been with him a lot longer than I have. I don’t have the armor in place yet to keep my mind from straying to him.

What is he doing right now? Is he bathing? Preparing to minister to the sick? Lying in bed and touching himself in a similar manner? Though, what he’d be touching, I’m not sure. I was never privy to that information.

From what little bit I’ve gathered, it must be different from me. Everything else is. He’s so large, broad, massive, so big I run out of words to describe it. In comparison, I’m so tiny and frail, fragile even, able to be snapped in half by his long fingers and wide palms.

My inner walls clench again, dragging my finger in a bit further. It’s not enough. I crave something more, something different. It’s bewildering to know you want something but have no idea what it is. Perhaps the Sisters will know. Perhaps they can guide me.

Desperation claws at my insides, raking through me with white-hot, razor-sharp talons, threatening to rend me from tip to stern. Guttural moans flit from my lips as I massage myself, bringing myself to a point of no return. Everything freezes as my stomach flips, dropping inside me.

Locked in this position, I fear I cannot move. On instinct, I slide my finger out from the warm haven of my body and grab a nearby pillow to staunch the cry of relief as it shatters through my body, opening me up and turning me inside out. I cannot control the long, low moan as it ripples through me, rushing through my veins like a babbling brook filled with healing waters to cool and soothe my ravaged mind.

I continue to stroke myself, riding out these sensations until pleasure turns to discomfort. Pulling my hand away, I lie there and look at the ceiling, forcing my breath to slow. My mind whirls about a mile-a-minute, refusing to settle on any one thing.

For once, I lie there, depleted, satiated, and at peace. A quiet hum of satisfaction buzzes through me, causing my limbs to feel heavy as they flop by my side. Closing my eyes again, I allow a soft smile to ease up my lips and a bubble of laughter erupts from my throat.

---