Message-ID: <6690eli$9803051601@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: Andrew Roller Subject: Summer of Sin part 14 of 14 (NND) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: roller666@earthlink.net Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <34FE6089.7A39@earthlink.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in SUMMER OF SIN _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Fourteen I was due back in America in two weeks. I walked along the boulevard, feeling the sunshine on my face. I passed under a tree and turned a corner. It was then that I saw it. A huge, stone cathedral. Ancient slabs of rock towered over me. Set within the rock were stained glass windows. I admired the blue and red and green panes in the windows. I felt awe, respect, admiration. I passed under a hideous gargoyle perched in the keystone of the church’s doorway. I found myself in shadow. I looked down an aisle between long rows of pews and saw an altar in the distance. Two tall candles flickered slowly on the altar, and, though I was too far back to see it, I imagined long streaks of wax sliding with eternal patience down them. I felt a sudden need to confess. God had been good to me, and I’d repaid him with sin. I glanced around. I wasn’t Catholic. Was there a priest anywhere? How exactly did one confess, anyway? Should I just walk up to the altar and pray? Would someone see me? “Yes, my child?” a sweet voice sang out. I turned, surprised. I had concluded that I was alone in the church and now, suddenly, I wasn’t. As I gazed into the face of an elderly nun I felt my sin was written all over my 13-year-old cheeks. “Is-- I’m Protestant, I’m sorry,” I apologized to the nun. “Or, at least, my parents are. You know...” “Yes?” the nun asked. There was bemusement on her features. “Oh! I have sinned!” I blurted to her suddenly. I did not wish to lie in the presence of a woman of God. “Oh dear,” the nun said. She seemed genuinely concerned. “I had thought perhaps you had lost your mother,” she said. I frowned. “I’m 13,” I told her. “I’m from America. I’m touring the city by myself today.” “Ah, things have changed since I was a child,” the nun said. She slapped her face. There was contrition in her eyes. “I had a chaperone until I was 17,” she told me. She turned. She began walking away. “Wait!” I called after her. The nun turned back toward me. “Come, child!” she said in a voice that seemed slightly scolding. “Come, come. You must confess to the priest if you have sinned.” “Yes,” I said. “I know.” I was about to tell her that I was Protestant again, or rather that my parents were, and I was because they were, but she seemed slightly senile and I let it go. I followed her obediently, clutching my purse. “Forgive me father I have sinned,” I said breathlessly in the confessional when I was seated in it. My voice came out high, school-girlish and uncertain. There was a shifting of robes behind the dark screen of the confessional, where the priest sat. “And how have you sinned, my child?” a male voice answered. I was surprised by it. It was strong, bold. Deep. I had expected, I guess, a voice as old as the nun’s, but male. “I’ve--” I felt myself blush from head to toe. How could I tell a man what I’d done? Silly me. What had I expected? A woman? An old man? Yes, I must have expected some old, doddering fool. But this man was young. I felt he must somehow be a priest by accident. I fought with myself to find the words to tell him what I’d done. In the event, he beguiled them out of me. He was slow and patient. He told me to start with the least sinful thing I’d done. I did. Gradually, we built up to my worst sins. By the end of two hours I’d told him everything. “And were there any other positions that you tried?” the priest asked in a patient, solicitous voice. “Not-- not that I can think of, sir,” I answered. “You needn’t call me sir,” the priest reminded me for the thousandth time. “I’m a priest.” “Yes, father,” I said. “Would you like to be free from the sin of your sexual vices?” the priest asked me. “Oh, yes!” I said, blushing in the privacy of my booth. “And, um, could we possibly take a break too? I have to go to the bathroom.” I heard the man on the opposite side of the screen clear his throat. “It is best not to speak so frankly about your natural functions,” the priest told me. “Yes, father,” I answered. “May I, uh, be excused, then?” “On one condition,” the priest said. His words made me feel an unexpected thrill down my back. I had not expected any conditions, least of all on my toiletry needs. Weren’t priests supposed to be, like, indulgent? “What- what condition, father?” I asked. “That we may speak privately in my office after your needs have been met,” the priest told me. “About your sin, of course.” “Of course, father,” I replied. I wondered what he would have said if I’d told him no. “Don’t take any longer than necessary,” the priest told me. “Yes, father,” I said. I stood up. “Where? Where is your office, sir?” I asked him through the confessional screen. “Office number 6,” the priest replied. “And the bathroom?” I asked. “Sister Jameson will assist you,” the priest answered. “Oh, yes! The nun. I forgot,” I told his shadowy form through the dark, latticed wall of the booth. “You are excused,” the priest answered. “Thank you, father,” I said. I left the confessional booth. There was a stone wall outside the booth, so that, should the priest exit, he and the parishioner should not meet. Only the latticed interior of the booth allowed communication between what were, otherwise, two separate parts of the church. I found the nun. She showed me to the toilet. Afterward, I considered leaving. I’d confessed. Had I recieved absolution? I wasn’t sure. But I knew the confessing was the important part. At least, in the movies I’d seen it was. But then, in the movies, the guy confessing often got shot before his confessions were through. I went searching for the priest’s office. The nun, I think, had herself thought I’d leave the church after my visit to the bathroom, and I couldn’t find her. Perhaps if I’d gone all the way out to the front of the church I’d have found her again, but I guessed that the priest’s office might be somewhere back where I was now, behind the altar. I didn’t want to have to traipse all the way out to the church’s front door. I might leave. I turned down a hallway. I saw three doors. I guessed they might be offices. Sure enough, I saw a number 4 on the first door I encountered. A door with a 5 on it was next. Then 6. I paused. Very softly, I knocked. “Come in,” a manly voice said. I turned the handle. I cracked the door. Respectfully I peeked inside. I gasped. Sitting behind a big desk, was one of the hunkiest priests I’ve ever seen. He looked up from a big black book he was reading, bound in leather. He lifted an eyebrow. “You must be Chloe,” the priest told me. His voice didn’t sound as soft or compassionate as it had in the confessional. “I-- I am, sir,” I answered. “Yes, you must be,” the priest said, sounding slightly annoyed. “You’re still calling me sir.” “I’m sorry, father,” I said. The priest rose up behind his desk. “Please come in, Chloe,” he said. I stepped inside, nervously. “What’s that?” he asked. He looked at my purse. It was fuzzy. It was in the shape of a bunny rabbit and you put things into it through its mouth. “It’s my rabbit purse,” I said. I blushed. I liked my purse. It was really cute. But I felt like a little girl, suddenly, holding it, and I blushed. He was a man. Would he think me just some bothersome child, standing there with my ‘fuzzy wuzzy wabbit purse,’ as I liked to call it? “You are quite young, Chloe, but come in anyway,” the priest told me. “From your confessions I’d expected someone, er, slightly older.” “I’m sorry, father,” I said. I gazed up at him with wide eyes. His own gazed down at me severely. “I’ve been sinful.” “Yes, you have, Chloe,” the priest told me. The priest reached out to me. He took my nearest arm by the elbow. He guided me over to a chair. It was large, well-stuffed. He sat me down in it and I felt quite small. He sat in another chair, next to mine. He had a large body and it settled into the chair firmly, with authority. He gazed at me. I was just admiring his handsome build, his blonde, Nordic hair, when another young man, also in priest’s robes, stepped out from behind a book case. He was holding a prayer book in his hands and he looked up from it as he stepped out from behind the wall of books. “Ah, she’s here,” the other young priest said. He put down the book he’d been reading on the desk of the priest who now sat beside me. He walked over to a chair opposite me and sat down. I found myself between the two of them, one on either side of me. I felt surrounded. “Chloe, this is Father Brannigan, and I’m Father Virgil,” the priest who’d heard my confession said. He reached out and placed a large, firm hand on my own. His fingers encompassed mine. He enclosed them. I felt warm inside his trap-like fingers. “We have a school for certain girls,” Father Brannigan said. “Girls who require special attention in unburdening themselves from sin.” I turned from the blonde priest holding my hand to Father Brannigan. “A school?” I asked. “You would be in attendance for several days,” Father Brannigan said. He eyed me closely. He had black hair, dark eyebrows. He looked even more formidable than the priest who was holding my hand. “I-- I did not know I would have to go to school,” I said frankly to Father Brannigan. “I have to be back in America in two weeks. To start school there!” “What year of school will you be starting?” Father Brannigan asked me. “Eighth,” I said. Father Brannigan’s eyes widened. Then he seemed almost to smile. He caught himself. I saw a gleam in his eyes and wasn’t sure I liked it. “Our school,” Father Brannigan told me, “Will allow you to rejoin your peers without feeling guilty at having perhaps outstripped them in the arts of love.” “But you must be humbled, first,” Father Virgil added. “That is the purpose of our school. To provide you with order and discipline in your life.” “Hopefully it will temper, if not erase, your memories of wildness and indiscretion from earlier in the summer,” Father Brannigan told me. “By humbling you,” Father Virgil said. He squeezed my hand. “Through humility you can be restored to innocence.” “What-- what would I have to do?” I asked. I pulled on my hand, enclasped and enclosed in Father Virgil’s big fingers, and found I couldn’t extricate it from his grip. “You would have to obey,” Father Brannigan told me. He smiled. I shivered. “Obey?” I gulped. “Yes,” Father Brannigan said. “Obey myself and Father Virgil, that is. We would attend to your lessons. An old woman would be the only other person present. She will,” Father Brannigan said, switching tenses, “attend to you between lessons. But you will not be able to look to her for solace and forgiveness. Only Father Virgil and myself can forgive you, if you perform your lessons accurately and well.” “With humility,” Father Virgil added, still holding my hand. I tried to pull it out of his grip again, and found I still could not. “Sister Mary will know you are a sinner, seeking absolution,” Father Brannigan told me. “She is old and cross. Do not look to her for consolation. She serves myself and Father Virgil by serving you, and only at our direction.” “You would,” Father Virgil said, giving my hand a tight squeeze, “be entirely under our control. That is the point Father Brannigan is trying to make.” “Is making,” Father Brannigan corrected. “Is making,” Father Virgil agreed. “Our school is in an old farmhouse, on the outskirts of town. It is on a plot of land owned by myself and Father Brannigan. We are not the first to own it. A Father Slade owned it before us. But he has passed on, and left it to us in his will, knowing we would know how to make proper use of it.” “As a school,” Father Brannigan said. “For young ladies like yourself, who require special care and attention.” “Have- have other girls gone to your school?” I asked. Father Brannigan looked at Father Virgil. “Yes,” Father Virgil said. “But ask no more of that. Each girl is special. You will be the only girl there, during your visit. Like I said, it will just be Father Brannigan and myself, plus Sister Mary. She is not officially a nun, just a cleaning woman. But we call her Sister Mary, and will expect you to as well.” “If she were a nun, we could not be as free with your instruction as events will no doubt require,” Father Brannigan said. “I don’t know,” I said. “I would have to ask my aunt...” Father Brannigan reached over to a table next to his chair. He handed me a brochure. It was titled, “Girls’ Self-Esteem Workshop.” Underneath the title, it read: “Building Tomorrow’s Women!” There were several girls, notably unattractive, staring out from the cover of the brochure at me. “We will drive you home and let you give this to your aunt,” Father Brannigan told me. “It’s entirely fake. There is no such workshop. But it’s highly effective in securing parental permission for our school.” “You will, of course, say nothing to her about our school,” Father Virgil told me, still holding my hand. He squeezed it. “You’re a big girl. Otherwise we would not be inviting you. You understand, I’m sure, that most parents would not want their daughter spending several days alone with two men.” “Yes,” I said, in a hushed voice, gazing down at the brochure. The girls stared dumbly back at me; one too fat, by a mile, another too thin, another downright ugly, with freckles all over her face, and braces, and red hair that looked as if it had never encountered a brush. “Yes. It will just be us?” I asked, looking up. “Yes, just us,” Father Brannigan assured me. “And Sister Mary, of course.” “I-- I don’t know,” I said. My voice quavered. “What-- what sort of lessons would I be learning?” “The lessons are designed to cleanse your soul,” Father Brannigan told me. “They will be difficult. They will require your utmost attention. You will need skill to complete them. But most of all, you will simply require a desire to obey.” “To obey?” I said. I heard a gasp in my voice. “With humility,” Father Virgil said. Father Brannigan rose. He stood over me. He reached down and clasped my head with both his strong hands. I found myself face to face with the zipper in his pants. His robes, open in front, hung off his broad shoulders. “We will go meet your aunt now, Chloe,” Father Brannigan told me. “You will give her the brochure. You will promise to call her whenever you get the chance. But make no specific promises. Tell her you’ll be very busy. Ask her not to annoy you during your Self-Esteem Workshop, because you and the other girls will be doing various projects.” “I’m not sure,” I said, squeamishly. Father Virgil tightened his grip on my hand. “Chloe, this is where Father Brannigan and I take over,” he said. “You have confessed your sin. Now it is time for us, as men of God, knowing of the weakness of the flesh, to expunge you of your sin. You will obey. You will not refuse this cleansing of your soul.” “It is for your own good, Chloe,” Father Brannigan told me. To test him I suddenly reached out with my lips and brushed them across the tab of his zipper, which was slightly extended off the front of his pants. “Yes,” Father Brannigan told me. “You see? Even now you try to sin. Woman is sinful from the time of Eve, and will be so forevermore, I suppose, which is why our little school will always be needed.” He tightened his grip on my head. He drew on my hair, carefully, but firmly. I was forced to stand up. He did not want what I had just offered him. Or perhaps, a thought which scared me, he did want it, but possessed the patience to wait. “Are you really a man of God?” I asked, looking up at the big priest standing over me. His hands still gripped my by my hair. He gazed down into my eyes. “A man of God... and a man,” Father Brannigan said. Then he broke our gaze and turned to Father Virgil. “Let’s go,” he said. We went out. I walked between them. They held me by both my hands. Father Virgil carried my purse. Imagine my auntie’s surprise when I showed up at the door with two priests! She was watering flowers in her house, dressed in a long, flowing skirt and a modest blouse, with a scarf tied around her head. She had on no makeup, though that hardly left her looking plain. “Oh! Hello,” my aunt said. She surveyed me and the two hunky guys standing on either side of me. They both held my hands. The dark-haired one, Father Brannigan, had rung our doorbell. “God day, madam,” the two young priests said in unison. “A fine day our Lord Jesus Christ has provided us with, is it not?” Father Brannigan asked my aunt. “Yes! Indeed!” my aunt said, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked at me. I gazed up at her and almost blushed, but didn’t. Father Virgil held my ‘wabbit purse’ in his hand. “Has... has she been bad?” my aunt asked worriedly. “Your daughter has been to confession,” Father Brannigan said. His voice was loud and strong in the warm summer air. The sun shone brightly down upon both men, standing there on my aunt’s doorstep in their black clerical robes. Older priests might have seemed compromised by the sun, its rays illuminating their drooping faces, their grey, bushy eyebrows. But these two young men, both of them rugged and tanned, were enhanced by the sun. They stood proud and erect in their black uniforms of God. They peered intently at my aunt, perhaps with concern for her soul, perhaps with an unpriestly interest in her figure. “Are you the woman of the house?” Father Brannigan asked. “Yes-- Yes I am,” my aunt replied. “You must have had her when you were very young,” Father Virgil said, holding my hand, in a sympathetic voice. “Oh! I am only her aunt,” my auntie answered. “She’s from America. She’ll be going back soon. She only stayed with me for the summer.” “I hope it was not a sinful summer,” Father Brannigan said. My aunt blushed. “No. Not at all,” my aunt replied. “We, uh, went to church every day. But we’re Protestant, not Catholic.” Father Virgil looked at Father Brannigan. “I wasn’t aware the Protestant parish was open every day,” Father Virgil said. “Perhaps they have grown closer to God,” Father Brannigan answered. He looked at my aunt. “Madam, may we come in? Your daughter... your, uh, niece... sorry. She has requested our assistance in procuring your permission to attend our Church’s Self-Esteem workshop.” “So I can be woman of tommorrow,” I offered. “Oh. Yes. Please do come in,” my aunt said. The priests moved forward, myself between them. Father Brannigan slipped through the front door first, still holding my hand. I followed. Father Virgil came behind. Rebecca led us into her living room. She put down her sprinkler can, that she’d been using to water the plants, on the floor. “May I get you something to drink? Wine?” Rebecca asked Father Brannigan and Father Virgil. “Water, please,” Father Brannigan answered. “But if you can turn water to wine...” Father Virgil began. “Water,” Father Brannigan interrupted. “Water for both of us.” We sat down on the couch. “I’ll have Kool-Aid,” I told my aunt, sitting primly between Father Brannigan and Father Virgil. She looked at me. “Yes,” Rebecca said. “Orange or Tootie-Fruitie, dear?” she asked. “Tootie-Fruitie,” I said, gazing up at her. I held tightly onto Father Brannigan and Father Virgil’s hands, as if she might take them away from me. I was enjoying having two hunky guys hanging around with me. My aunt gave me a strange look, like a mother does when she thinks something’s afoot, but she went to fetch our drinks anyway. “So tell me, gentlemen,” my aunt asked, when she’d served us our drinks and settled onto the sofa opposite the one we were all sitting on. She’d served my drink with a childish curly straw and I sucked on it merrily. “Isn’t Chloe, my niece, a little young to attend a Self-Esteem Workshop for Women?” “Oh-- not for women. It’s for girls,” Father Brannigan said. “I’d love to attend,” Rebecca told the priests. “Ah... you cannot. It would disrupt her educational progress,” Father Virgil said. “Oh.” My aunt drank from her glass of juice. “Yes, the girls will have no certain schedule,” Father Brannigan said. “Nights, days, they will be doing things all the time. So don’t expect Chloe here to call you. In several days, when the workshop is complete, we shall bring her home ourselves. I think you’ll find she’s a new woman.” “Purged of all sin,” Father Virgil said. “Her body is, after all, a temple of the Lord, as the holy book tells us,” Father Brannigan said. “It’s important for a girl like Chloe to attend a workshop like this as she approaches womanhood,” Father Virgil said. “Yes. The Pope himself attended a workshop like this, when he was a young man,” Father Brannigan said. “Now, as a modern Catholic church, we’re pleased to offer a similar workshop for young girls.” “My, that’s quite progressive of you,” my aunt said. But there was a hint of suspicion in her voice. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the priests’ eyes kept flitting down to her bosoms. “It is a pity we didn’t make your acquaintance when you were younger,” Father Brannigan said to my aunt. “You would have been an excellent, uh, candidate for our workshop.” “Yes,” Father Virgil agreed. “Oh, is that so?” my aunt said. “Well, it’s such a pity that I missed out on that opportunity, gentlemen. But I must tell you about my niece, Chloe.” I squirmed in my seat. What was she up to? “She has been very naughty,” my aunt said. “Really?” Father Brannigan asked. “Yes, do you know how she likes to go swimming?” my aunt asked. Father Brannigan looked out the window of our living room at the still waters of our pool, shimmering in the hot mid-day sun. “No. How?” Father Brannigan asked. “Topless!” my aunt said. “I have to force her to put her top on. To keep her boobies white,” my aunt said. “I tell her that her breasts look much prettier with the skin white, so there is a contrast between them and her arms and tummy, when she finds herself entertaining a young gentleman with them.” “Auntie!” I blurted. “She has... uh... entertained young men with her... naked breasts?” Father Brannigan asked. “Why, she had a boyfriend, didn’t she? What was his name, Chloe?” my aunt asked. “Brad the Rad,” I said. “But--” “I also tell her that her nipples,which are quite pink, look prettiest that way, and if she exposes them to the sun they will darken prematurely,” my aunt said. “But time and again I find her swimming topless anyway. Even bottomless! One time the workmen came over to do our lawn, and there was Chloe, like a little water sprite, dancing around the pool and diving into it, in her bare skin!” “Really!” both priests said, in unison. They both made restless movements of their hips on the couch, as if their clothes were suddenly binding them. “I had to take her upstairs and spank her,” my aunt said. “Her bottom was very red, after that. But do you know what she did?” My aunt paused. She looked at me. She sipped her drink. I glowered at her. The entire story, the whole thing, was made up. What was she doing? Trying to kill me with embarrassment? (It’s not always good to have an aunt who’s only 19.) “No... what did she do?” Father Brannigan asked. His hips squirmed as he spoke, as if he’d sat on a nail. His throat sounded constricted. “She yelled, ‘Ooooh! My bottom hoits!’ Just like that,” my aunt said. She suppressed a smirk. “Then little Chloe, all bare and naked, her bottom red from my hand, went running downstairs. She dashed out back to the pool and plunged into it. To cool her bottom. Of course, all four immigrant workmen were there, trying to do our lawn. You can imagine the look on their faces. They wondered, too, if perhaps they weren’t being invited to assist her in some way.” “Yes,” Father Brannigan said. “Which is why I think you should stay and have a swim,” my aunt said. “A swim?” Father Virgil asked. “You could help her understand that she mustn’t swim topless,” my aunt said. “It would help discipline her, having two priests swimming with her.” “We-- we haven’t any swimsuits,” Father Brannigan said. “Swim in your underpants,” my aunt offered. “Perhaps another time,” Father Brannigan answered. “We are not averse to activities that promote good health. Perhaps another time we shall pay a visit on you, madam, and remember to bring our swimsuits.” I sensed our meeting was drawing to a close. I squirmed impatiently between my two priests. Father Virgil held my hand, and my purse. “I hope my niece profits from your instruction,” my aunt told the priests. “I’m sure she’ll give it her utmost attention,” Father Brannigan said. His water glass was empty. “More water?” my aunt asked. “No. We must go now. The workshop will be starting soon and your neice can profit most if she’s on time,” Father Brannigan said. “She does not need to change?” my aunt asked. She looked at me. I rolled my eyes, growing bored with the whole idea of asking her permission. I was, after all, 13. I should be able to spend time with two hunky priests if I wished, without her interfering. “The clothes she gave confession in will be fine,” Father Brannigan told my aunt. There was reassurance in his voice. He smiled at her. “How convenient that she went to confession on the very day your workshop is starting,” my aunt said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Father Brannigan said. He looked at his watch. “Oh! Good Lord! We shall miss the first Bible reading if we linger.” “Then you must go,” my aunt said. “It was nice of you both to stop by and chat.” She rose. She looked at them, at me. We stood and I gave her an impatient stare. She walked over to me and took my glass with the childish, curled-up straw sticking out of it. “Are you sure you don’t want any more Kool-Aid, Chloe?” she asked me. “No, auntie,” I replied. “Be good,” my aunt said. She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. I sensed the priests looking into her blouse as it billowed forth, exposing her breasts. She wore no bra underneath. At the front door, as the two priests led me away, my aunt called after them, “Let me know if there’s ever a workshop at the church for grown women.” Father Brannigan turned. “Most assuredly, madam, we will,” he said. He gave my aunt a broad grin. His eyes lowered to her bosoms and lingered over them until Father Virgil cleared his throat and caused him to turn. One of my hands was free and I waved to my aunt. She waved back. “Come along, child,” Father Virgil told me. He and I got into the back of their car. It was black. There was a bright coat of polish on it. Otherwise it was nondescript, looking like any other car you might see travelling along a French lane. Father Brannigan got in front. He started the car. We drove away. Sitting in the back with me, Father Virgil produced a blindfold. It was made of black silk. “I must put this over your eyes,” Father Virgil told me. “The location of our place of instruction is a secret.” “I... like secrets,” I said. I gazed at the blindfold. He lifted it to my face. “Can’t I see? Please?” I asked. My voice was high-pitched, uncertain. “No, I’m afraid not,” Father Virgil told me. He tied on the blindfold. He made it tight. He checked its tightness, after it was on me, and then loosened it just a bit. I heard a jingling sound. “I must also cuff your hands,” Father Virgil said. “Oh, but why?” I asked, my eyes covered by the blindfold. “Shhhh, you must not ask any more questions,” Father Virgil told me. “Otherwise I shall have to put a gag over your mouth. Your lips are so pretty. I would not want to have to do that.” Father Virgil took hold of my wrists. They felt small and frail in his big hands, like wrists made of wishbone-thin bones that you find in a turkey being eaten at Thanksgiving. Gently but firmly Father Virgil drew my wrists behind me. I heard a click of metal. I tried to pull my hands apart and found they were locked securely to each other, behind my back. My breasts pressed hard into my blouse. My stomach tautened in fear, making my ribs stick out under my blouse. I felt hands on my thighs. They were calloused, rough, hard. They sleeked up my bare legs. “You wear no stockings,” Father Virgil said to me. “No,” I said, my voice trembling. “Your skirt is quite short,” Father Virgil told me. “Yes,” I agreed. “Your panties. Did you know that sometimes your skirt flips up, in the breeze, and shows them?” he asked. I gulped. “Yes,” I answered. “Do you know what that does to a man, even to a priest?” Father Virgil asked me. “No...” I offered. “It makes him want to take them off,” Father Virgil said. “Oh, you mustn’t!” I cried. “I’m afraid I must,” Father Virgil said. “You will be given new ones at our school. Plus stockings, to impart a certain modesty to your legs. They are very long and pretty. But, for now, I want you to sit bare-bottomed on the seat of the car. It’s quite clean, I can assure you. We keep it smooth and polished just for girls like yourself. I want you to feel the warmth of the seat, heated from being in the sun, directly on your ass. Do you know why I want you to feel it?” Father Virgil asked me. “No,” I breathed. “To aid in your contrition,” Father Virgil said. “You see, at our school, your bottom will be heated with a strap. I want you to feel the hotness of the sun-heated seat on your bottom, and to think of the strap.” “Oh! You mean I am to be spanked?” I gasped. Father Virgil tugged on my panties. He forced me to lift my bottom, slighlty, and eased them off the back of my fanny. He pulled them down my legs. The center portion of my undies was caught in my snatch and he kept pulling, slowly, until my panties freed themselves from my slit. He drew them down my legs. I settled on the seat and gasped as I felt its sun-warmed surface directly on my bare cheeks. “You will be disciplined, to make you a good wife,” Father Virgil told me. “But do not think of the strap itself. Think of the sin it will remove from your soul as it licks across your bottom.” “Oh, I don’t want to be spanked,” I said truthfully. Father Virgil made me lift my feet. He drew my panties down my calves. Carefully he pulled them over my spiked heels. “You do not have to worry, no one will hear,” Father Virgil told me. “Our place of instruction is quite secluded.” “It’s not--” I began, meaning to say that, while I certainly didn’t want anyone hearing me screaming, I also didn’t want my bottom smacked. But I never got to finish, because Father Virgil put my panties to my lips. I drew my head back, alarmed. “Open your mouth,” Father Virgil said. “But they’re my panties!” I cried. Father Virgil put his big hand to my face. He pressed on my cheeks, forcing my mouth into an O. I sniffed my panties and then felt them intruding between my lips. A large finger stuffed them between my teeth. “There. You may close now,” Father Virgil said. He compressed my small mouth, closing my jaw. I tasted my panties on my tongue. They made my cheeks bulge. “Such a convenient place for a girl to put her panties,” Father Virgil said. “It’s too bad they’ll get wet. But then, they were rather wet already, weren’t they?” he asked me. I felt a need to be truthful. I nodded, blushing. I felt Father Virgil open a small box next to my feet. It was sitting on the floor of the car. He took something from it. “Although I want your bottom to be warm,” Father Virgil told me. “There is another part of you that must not be allowed to be warm. For if your, shall we call it your fruit, for the sake of modesty? If the fruit of your womb, between your legs, is warm, we know that is sinful, don’t we?” I felt myself nod. “Very well,” Father Virgil said. “Fortunately, I have something here to keep your fruit cool.” I heard him pop a cap off of something. “Spread,” Father Virgil told me, for while my legs weren’t crossed, they were fairly close together. I opened them. His hand went up under my skirt. I wondered what he was holding. I felt something cool and round, like a cylinder, brush my thighs. Something sharp bumped my womb and I gasped. My panties lay in my mouth, wet cloth on my tongue. SPLURRRT! I heard. At the same moment I let out a cry, through the suffocating cloth of my panties, for something cold and wet spurted all over my cunny. “Oooooh!” I shouted. “Relax. It’s only whipped cream,” Father Virgil told me. “It will keep you cool as we travel along. So your pussy doesn’t become warm and sinful.” “Mmmmmf,” I said through my panties. The cream was quite chilly against my cunt. It intruded into my slit, making the inner walls of my fig feel all wet and slimy and cold. A sharp nozzle pushed up between the lips of my cunt. It lay snug and poised there, pushing into my sex, all rude and hard. Splurrrt! I heard again. It was a small, tentative squirt this time. A dollop of cream jetted into my fig’s inner recesses. “Yes, just like sperm. Except this will keep you nice and cool and chaste,” Father Virgil assured me. He drew back a little, then let loose another squirt from his can. “There,” he said. “I want you to think of the forgiveness of our Lord as we travel,” he said. “Don’t worry. If you need more cream, I’ll introduce it into your sex. Do you have to pee?” he asked me. I nodded that I did not. “Good,” Father Virgil said. “What a pity it would be if we had to stop the car and you had to squat by the side of the road and try to pee through all this cream covering your pussy. I’m sure you’d like some on your bottom too but, as I said, the warm seat is intended to make you speculate on what the strap will feel like when Father Brannigan applies it to your ass. How it will sting, eh? Think of all the bad things you’ve done, so that you can more readily offer them up to God and beg his forgiveness when you’re tied bottom-up in your bed at our school.” Father Virgil put a hand up under my blouse and patted my flat belly. “Yes,” he said. “Flat on your tummy you’ll be, with pillows under your hips, lifting up your bare naked ass to Father Brannigan’s strap. But don’t worry. Like I said, the beating will take place in your bed. It’s a big, soft, comfortable bed. Every effort will be made to keep you in the utmost luxury, at our school. You will be attended to every moment, pampered even, spoilt, perhaps, if it’s possible to spoil a young girl like yourself who’s already seen every advantage in life. But you must not confuse the comfort you are provided with as a lessening of our will to discipline you.” Father Virgil pressed a big finger into my navel. “One day you will be with child,” he said to me. He kissed my cheek. “You are lucky you’re not already with child, given what you’ve been up to. Don’t worry. Father Brannigan and I will see to your moral education. You will be a fine, chaste young woman when we’re through with you. Ready to return to America and take your place in the eighth grade with other girls, girls perhaps who haven’t been as sinful as you have. What a benefit that will be, eh?” He patted my tummy. “Don’t expect to sit down your first week of school, though,” he added. He laughed. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or just pulling my chain. He was certainly squirting my pussy! I cringed, wished my cunt wasn’t all covered with chilly whipped cream. Our car turned off a paved road and onto one lined with gravel. After more than a few turns, and a good half hour of driving, our car stopped. Father Virgil helped me get out. I felt the sun on my face. I smelled farm animals. I heard a dog barking. Father Virgil untied my blindfold. I blinked my eyes. He did not remove my handcuffs. I gazed at my surroundings. We were parked in front of a ramshackle farm. I wondered at the luxury Father Virgil had spoken of. This looked like an old house, with a barn beside it, nothing more. He pushed me forward. I stumbled in my high heels in the grass. A dollop of cream detached itself from my pussy and plopped into the weeds at my feet. Father Virgil caught my arm and guided my steps. Father Brannigan, getting out of the car, followed us. We stepped up onto a porch. Father Virgil knocked on the front door. We waited patiently. I listened to the dog, still barking, somewhere. Father Brannigan came up beside us. He stood on one side of me. Father Virgil stood on the other side of me. I gazed at the front door. It was made of wood. Finally I heard a bolt being drawn back on the other side of the door. It swung open. A woman, middle-aged, fat, her hair drawn up in a tight bun, gazed out at us. At that very moment, more whipped cream fell from between my legs. It hit the door mat we were standing on. The woman ran her eyes down my bare legs and looked at the cream. “She’s dripping,” the woman said. “She’s making a mess on my door mat.” I looked down and saw ‘Home Sweet Home’ woven into the door mat. “She is sinful and requires correction, Sister Mary,” Father Brannigan said. “I should say so!” Sister Mary bellowed. “Please, bring her inside. I’ll see to it that she’s prepared for your strap.” “Thank you,” Father Virgil said. He pushed me through the door. “Wait!” I cried, over the panties stuffed in my mouth. “Don’t drip all over my rug,” Sister Mary warned me. I clipped my legs together. The cream between my thighs squished and I felt more of it run down between my legs. Father Brannigan and Father Virgil stepped inside, but they no longer had possession of me, though Father Virgil still held my purse. “Where are your panties, girl? In your mouth?” Sister Mary scolded. “That’s a strange place for them.” She opened my lips. She drew out my underpants. “They’re all wet!” she said. She turned me. “My heavens,” she said. “The priests even found it necessary to put cuffs on your wrists. You must be a bad one.” She lifted my skirt. She gazed at my naked bottom. “What? Not a mark upon it? No wonder you’re so naughty. We can fix that, though. Upstairs, girl! I’ll have to put you straightaway in the bath. Get all this cream out from between your legs. Then we’ll see what the Fathers intend to do about your education. You need plenty of it, in my opinion!” “Please,” I said. “Don’t speak,” the woman told me. “Look how short your skirt is. Is that what you girls run around in these days? Without even stockings on? Well, here you will wear a proper school uniform. A summer uniform, admittedly. We have no air conditioning in the house.” She tsked, turned me, gazed at my hips, my skirt uplifted by her hands. “Look at this skimpy tan line on you, girl,” Sister Mary said. “What do you wear to the beach? A string bikini? Good Lord!” Sister Mary filled a tub for me upstairs and I bathed myself. She watched me the entire time. I felt embarrassed. She sat on the toilet to watch me. Her heavy rump rested on its fur-covered seat. She used the toilet merely to sit down, not to relieve herself, its lid closed. Her eyes ran over my slim-limbed body as I watched msyelf. She seemed jealous of me, my youth, my figure. 30 ----------------------- Dreamgirls! ----------------------- -Back issues (and stories): type http://www.dejanews.com/ into your browser’s “Location” window. Press your “return” key. Find “standard” in the middle of the screen. Click on “standard”. Change “standard” to “complete”. Above the word “complete”, Type in: roller39@idt.net Press your “return” key. -Or search using: roller666@earthlink.net -Other providers: Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/files/Authors/eli/www/erotica/assm/ -Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868 - JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership. NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018. -Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder. -END OF story EMISSION -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |