Message-ID: <6774eli$9803101657@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: X-Good-Line-Length: yes Subject: New Story: "Mysterious Bride Of Christ"/MrSpraycan Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6du91p$erk@camel20.mindspring.com> Another new one. Combining the ever-popular schoolgirl spanking with the ultimate police state, the convent school. Copyright (c) 1998 by MrSpraycan. For private use only. Do not archive, retransmit, republish. MYSTERIOUS BRIDE OF CHRIST by MrSpraycan "I shall spank every girl in this class. Every single one of you, unless I hear a full confession from whoever was responsible for this disgusting offense," Sister Rose tells the cowering girls. They stare back wide-eyed. It's a mixture of fear, defiance, anger and shame she's seeing. The nun is a notorious sadist, and they don't doubt for a minute that she will inflict such a punishment on them all, if someone does not admit the deed soon. Sister Rose is in her thirties, and seems very old to the sixteen-year-olds. Unlike many of the others here, she's Irish, with a warm brogue, but a fearsome manner when crossed. Tall and big-boned, with short, reddish hair, ruddy cheeks. When she ventures into town, men stare. They find her attractive, but of course know that they must not harbor such thoughts. She's very angry today. Who could it have been? Who has been responsible for placing a pair of fragrant, wet cotton knickers in the parcel of offerings to the Cardinal, before his pilgrimage to Rome? Labeled "Put your sticky finger in here, instead of up boys' arses, you old bugger," and signed: "The Fuckslut Bride Of Christ/Randy Wendy The Cunty-Drawed Shagger." Not Wendy. There isn't one in the class, never has been. Oh, they are standard issue school uniform knickers. From Marks and Sparks, St. Margaret's plainest and cheapest. Even the size didn't help -- most of the girls in 3F are of similar build. Even the large Mary could not be ruled out: she could have stolen someone else's and messed them up, after all. The telltale laundry tags have been snipped off, and all that Sister Rose and the other investigators have to go on is the evidence of the slightly worn knickers themselves. With their failing elastic and a dingy tone. A yellowish stain at the crotch, and a distinctive scent. Sister Rose has contemplated borrowing a police dog, and matching girls and smells. But has decided not to go that way at first. Whatever little slut it was would probably delight in this, and the humiliation it would bring all the others, as a lolling-tongued dog nosed them intimately. No, she resolves, if all else fails we'll resort to that, or some other scientific method. But first, we'll try the proven technique of the paddle, cane and tawse. "Miss, I mean Sister, it wasn't me," says Pam, the class 'good girl,' par excellence. "Who was it then?" "I don't know." "But Pamela, you know everything. Maybe a few strokes will remind you. Step forward, girl." The thought of seeing such a good girl punished makes the others nervous. Now they harbor no doubts that Sister Rose would spank them all, if she must. "Hold out your hands," Sister Rose commands. Pam stretches them both out, palms upward. The tawse is picked up. The room is silent but for Pam's labored, open-mouthed breathing. Down it comes, hard, three times on each hand. Pam gasps. "Turn them over," she is ordered. A wooden ruler is brandished. Five strokes across the knuckles of each hand. Loud blows the echo round the room. Several girls look faint, there are gasps of sympathy. But Sister Rose hasn't finished. "Now, bend over, young woman." Pam lifts her skirt, bends over the chair that has been placed in front of her. Sister Rose picks up her leather paddle. She grasps the fabric of Pam's knickers, and pulls them down to her knees. Her white buttocks seem huge, vulnerable, mysterious, appealing, in the brightly sunlit classroom. Outside, a game of hockey is underway, birds are singing. Here, a girl is going to be spanked, hard. The blows seem as loud as pistol shots. Not just six. No, a dozen strokes before Sister Rose relents. There are tears in her eyes when she stands up afterwards and hobbles away. "Sister, it was Cecilia. I know it!" says Sandra, a sneaky girl, a refugee from the North. "You lying bitch!" Cecilia shrieks, leaping forward. Others hold them apart as they spit and bristle at each other, mouthing insults. "Quiet, the pair of you!" Sister Rose shouts. "Cecilia, is this true?" "No!" "Really? Step forward and bend over. We'll see, shall we?" Another vicious paddling. Sneaky Sandra is next, to everyone's satisfaction, and Cecilia's particular delight. There are twelve girls left. One by one, they are brutally paddled. Now, Sister Rose has a plan. Each is asked to remove her knickers before the paddling. And the knickers are labeled and hung on hooks on the class noticeboard. "Who has a good sense of smell?" Sister Rose asks the tearful group. No volunteers. She motions to Pam, who is sniffling the least by now. She produces the offending 'Bride' knickers and says: "Smell these, and then sniff all of these drawers and see if you can identify the owner." It's done, though Pam would make a poor bloodhound. She lacks the leg-humping enthusiasm a dog would put into this. And she's quite indecisive. "I...I don't know. Please, I really don't. It's disgusting. It could be any of them, really. Just a couple seem more likely, but, oh, I can't say for sure." "That's good enough for me, Pam. Which?" "Well," she hesitates. "This pair, and this one here. Oh, and these are very smelly." Sister Rose snorts as she reads the labels. "Sandra, Jane and haha, your own, Pam." There's widespread relief, a couple of angry protests, and giggles of laughter at Pam's shriek of disbelief. "Step forward, you three. We'll investigate a little more, shall we?" The trio nervously cluster together. "Skirts off. Bare from the waist down, girls." The display of chubby thighs, round bottoms, flat stomachs and tiny pubic triangles is delightful. But Sister Rose tries not to show her secret enjoyment of it. "I need another volunteer." No one wants to play along now. Sister Rose points to the wrongfully accused Cecilia. "You, then. Sniff these dirty knickers. Deep breath. Come on, so you can almost taste it. It's not that unfamiliar to you, is it? Now, you three, legs apart, hands on your heads. Down on your knees, Cecilia, and tell us who it is, girl." Cecilia shakes her head miserably. "I can't tell, really can't," she says after sniffing each girl two or three times. "Liar. We'll take the tawse to your backside for that, girl. Lift your skirt." And she does, not even letting Cecilia up from her knees. Then she picks on another pupil, Diane, and says, "Right. You sniff the ones on the board and we'll pick out some more possible girls, then." The afternoon passes slowly. But, step by step, Sister Rose is seeking a consensus. Taking notes. Observing the girl's behavior for clues. For evidence of sexual misconduct for later use. For signs of lesbian tendencies. She is a wily one, Sister Rose. Who has seduced countless pupils over the years. Right now, she's without a love interest, but she will address that little problem soon. Today, she's aching to punish and humiliate, another pleasure she takes very seriously. The endless sampling and sniffing continues. And eventually it's done. There are four candidates now, with far more votes: Pam, Cecilia, Diane and Sandra. Girls whose penance calendars are going to be busy from now on this term, whatever the outcome here. Girls with dirty knickers are always the first to suffer. Sister Rose announces: "If I don't hear a confession now, I'm going to have to be much stricter." There's nervousness, whispering. Each of the suspect girls has had at least two dozen strokes already. "Meaning, you'll all be soundly beaten, you four." "Please, Sister, it wasn't me," Pam pleads. "None of us!" Cecilia says, sobbing. "How do you know? Unless you know who it really was, and you're protecting her?" Sister Rose mocks. They fall silent. Sister Rose nods, pursing her lips. "Very well. Out of your clothes, all of you. Every stitch. It's the strap for you, and then the senior cane." "No!" A communal moan of disbelief. "Yes. This was a filthy blasphemy. What if these filthy clothes had made the pilgrimage, been presented with other offerings to our Holy Father? Can you imagine the shame that would descend on our school?" She glares at them. "We would have burned you at the stake in the seventeenth century, you know." "We wouldn't have had knickers to wear then," someone murmurs. "Who was that? Ah, you, Amy. Well then, step up here too, and strip off your clothes as well." The girl with the smart mouth is regretting it already. "Someone, confess, please!" Pam pleads. "It wasn't me! It wasn't!" "Yes, for your soul, for your friends, be honest," Sandra joins in. "I understand it must have seemed funny, but..." "What will you do to the girl when you find her?" Amy asks nervously. "Take her to the Mother Superior and recommend that she is given a suitable penance. One to remember." Silence. "Thirty days of prayer. Fasting during daylight. Loss of clothing privileges. Confinement to a penance cell with no bed, just a blanket on the floor. Regular cold showers. And probably a daily birching. Not so bad really," Sister Rose recites. "Of, course, Mother Superior may be more lenient." She smiles thinly. "If it were me, I'd add a vigorous caning by her classmates for being a disgrace to them all, and for bringing them all such pain." Some nod at this. There's a long silence. Sister Rose examines the strap thoughtfully. She's contemplating whether to summon help; her arm is a little tired. Then, Hillary raises her hand nervously. "It was me." A small, dark-haired girl. The class mouse, in many ways. Good at geography and math, terrible at languages. Bottom of the class in Gaelic. Resentful of many school rules. Oh, how had they failed to guess? It was so obvious. The other girls recoil from her, as if she has leprosy. Sister Rose dashes forward, seizes her wrist, slaps her face hard, several times. Then grabs at her hair. She shakes her hard. "You vile girl," she shrills. "It was just a joke. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the girl pleads. "A joke? I'll show you a joke! Strip, you bitch. Get out of my sight, the rest of you. Go take a shower you three, you stink." The girls jostle to leave the room, pulling their clothes on as they go. Sister Rose tells Hillary, as she slithers out of her uniform: "Oh, I'm going to show you what happens to dirty, dirty girls. You'll get the punishment of a lifetime. Trust me." Hillary is taken to Mother Superior's office. Her nude body already marked with several vicious welts. Thighs, breasts, buttocks. Sister Rose has dragged her here, lashing her with the heavy strap. Girls in the corridors averted their eyes in shock at the sight of a naked girl being roughly hauled along. It's not a regular event, and it's best not to know about these things. The saintly old woman listens with barely controlled anger to Sister Rose's story, and Hillary's tearful confession. She prays for a minute or two, then says quietly: "Lock her away. We'll decide later." Back at the classroom, the girls are in turmoil. Who'd have guessed? While the idea of caning Hillary has appeal to one or two of the more vindictive ones, they've been shouted down. Most are sad to see her found out. She's an unhappy girl, a strange one. Maybe if they'd been friendlier, known her better, it wouldn't have happened. They agree to send a delegation to plead for mercy. They're kept waiting for a half hour. Then ushered in to the Mother Superior's bleak room. She listens silently to their pleas, and carefully phrased, circumspect comments about how brutal Sister Rose has been to the whole class. Finally, she speaks: "Yes, children. I understand your concern. Thee have been excesses here, and overzealous punishments. But this was an evil, wicked crime. I think, on balance that Sister Rose was diligent in her investigation. Ingenious, even. I regret that she shamed some of you. And for that, I will ask that she apologizes to you individually, and begs your forgiveness. But remember it is better to shame the body, and hurt the flesh, than to suffer evil to dwell in a young woman's heart. And as for young Hillary, I fear that expulsion from the school will suffice." After they leave, grateful for this display of clemency, Mother Superior smiles quietly to herself. She has Hillary's record folder on her desk now. Divorced parents. Of course. Father, an oil exploration type. Working for some American company in Azerbaijan. And the mother? At Citibank in Singapore. Remarried to some heathen Chinese. Well, they won't interfere with us. Oh, we'll expel her alright, she thinks. In three weeks or so, at the end of the month. At midnight. But we'll clean up her locker and pack her things today. They'll think she's gone already, without a goodbye. But until then, she can be punished, as she deserves. The way Sister Rose has pleaded for, so eloquently. The birching sounds a good place to begin. Head to toe, until she's raw. If she faints, we'll revive her with an icy cold bath and carry on. She must suffer. There's no two ways about it. And we'll birch her more than once, oh yes. And we'll use some of the novitiates to cane her. They're older and stronger than her classmates. First though, I want to know she has suffered a little. Suffer in those parts where her devilry originates. We'll singe and pluck the hair from that filthy slit of hers. Shave it as smooth as a baby girl's. We'll scourge and scrub and scour and mistreat it. With hot wax, pins and pliers. And she'll get the bridal initiation she deserves. If she's a virgin now --which I doubt -- she won't be by the end of today. No. She is possessed by some demon, so we'll exorcise it. She's been Satan's bride, and that's what made her commit this blasphemy. It's simple science. She summons Sister Rose. "I have given this great thought, Rose dear. The matter of Hillary, that is." "Yes, Mother?" "You are right. She must be purified. And it won't be easy. Take her to the cellars, and do what you must. Severity is called for. The various things you recommend here," she points to the folder. "Spare her nothing." Copyright (c) 1998 by MrSpraycan The soap opera is running again. Go to [ Via MailAnon Remail Service ] -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |