Wrapped In Lycan Obsession

001

RAVEN'S POV

“I’m going to ruin that holy little cunt until you forget how to pray, you naughty nun.”

His filthy words slither back into my mind like hot oil poured straight down my spine, making my whole body arch before I even realize I’ve moved.

A low moan tears out of me, and it echoed off the stone walls of the narrow corridor. My hand flies to my mouth too late. The sound hangs there in the midnight hush of the convent.

I heard footsteps and it was coming closer.

“Sister Raven?” The voice is gentle, sleepy and laced with concern. It’s Sister Miriam, the youngest novice, her cell just two doors down. “Are you alright? I heard…”

I freeze against the wall, heart hammering so loud I’m sure she can hear it through the plaster. My shift clings to my damp skin, nipples tight, peaks scraping the fabric with every shallow breath. Between my thighs the slick heat pulses in time with the scar on my belly, that cursed little crescent that never lets me forget how alive this body still is. His text from last night keeps looping: ‘ruin… holy little cunt… forget how to pray.’ Each syllable drips lower, coating my folds until they’re swollen and slippery, begging for fingers I shouldn’t give them.

I force my voice steady, though it comes out husky, wrecked. “I’m… fine, Miriam. Just… the candle. I totally forgot about the hot wax. It dripped and touched my skin.”

There was a pause. I can picture her tilting her head, dark braid swinging over her shoulder, brows knit in that sweet, innocent worry she always wears.

“Does it hurt badly? Should I fetch the infirmary salve?”

“No.” I said too quickly. I soften it by adding a small, breathless laugh that sounds more like a sob. “It’s nothing. It was a silly accident. The sting… It startled me, that’s all. Go back to sleep, pretty lady. I’ll be alright.”

There was another beat of silence. Then her soft exhale. “Okay if you say so. But if it blisters, promise you’ll tell Mother Superior in the morning.”

“I promise.”

Her footsteps retreated until it disappeared. Only then did I let my head fall back against the cold stone, I shut my eyes, squeezing shut as a fresh shiver raced through me.

The lie tastes filthy on my tongue. ‘Hot wax.’ If only it were that simple. If only the burn came from paraffin instead of his promise to ruin me, to stretch and fill and break every vow I ever whispered on my knees. My clit throbs harder just remembering the way he typed it so casually, like he already owned the space between my legs. A fresh gush slicks my thighs; I can feel it cooling in the draft, sticky under the hem of my shift.

I press my thighs together hard, trying to smother the ache. It only makes it worse. My nipples scrape the wool like punishment, sending sparks straight to my core. Every step toward my cell rubs my swollen folds together, teasing without mercy. I bite my lip until I taste blood, but even that tiny pain twists into pleasure, coils tight around the echo of his words.

I hurried to my cell. The key trembles in the lock. I slip inside, shut the door, turn the bolt with a soft snick.

The convent is dead quiet. Sisters had gone to their cells,only the faint creak of old wood settling was heard. I slip into my room, lock the door with trembling fingers, and lean against it like the wood might hold me upright when my knees decide to quit.  

I shouldn't be doing this.  

That's the first lie I tell myself tonight. The second is that I can stop.  

I peel the veil off first, slowly, letting the black silk slide over my hair like a lover's palm. Pins clattered to the floor. My hair tumbles loose, dark waves hitting my shoulders, brushing the tops of my breasts through the thin shift. My nipples pebble instantly from the cool air and the memory of his text saying exactly how he'd bite them until I sobbed his name. I cup them anyway, thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks, and a soft whine slips out before I can choke it back.  

I stepped to the full-length mirror next. I stand in front of it. Golden light from the single candle paints my skin, traces the faint lines the sun left on my collarbones last summer when I forgot to cover properly during garden work. I follow those lines with my fingertips, down, down, over the swell of my breasts, circling the dark areolas until they're so tight they ache.  

The scar sits low on my belly, just above the soft mound. A thin silver crescent from an incident a year ago. I press two fingers to it, and the heat spears straight down, making my thighs snap together on instinct. A fresh gush of wetness coats the insides of my folds. I can smell myself already.  

I drop the shift anyway. It pools at my feet. I was naked now except for the plain cotton panties already soaked through at the crotch. I hook my thumbs in the waistband and drag them down my thighs. The mirror shows everything. It showed my flushed cheeks, parted lips, nipples that stood like dark berries and the glistening trail already shining on my thighs. My clit was swollen and peeking from its hood.

My phone is hidden inside the hollowed-out breviary on the shelf. I pull it out with shaking hands. I opened the shadowed app, the one buried behind three fake calculators and a prayer timer. 

The feed loads. Old videos appeared first. My own face fills the screen. Videos of months ago where I allowed my fingers to circle my clit so slowly it looked like torture. 

I played it again, volume off. Just the sight of my own body arching, hips lifting off the mattress like I'm offering myself to the ceiling. My free hand drifts between my legs now, fingertips sliding through the slickness, coating them. I spread it over my clit in lazy circles, matching the rhythm on screen. My breath hitched.  

Then I scrolled up, past the videos to the archived thread.  

His words are still there, pinned like relics. I ghosted him after the last time I came so hard I saw stars and then spent three days on my knees in the chapel begging forgiveness. I told myself a nun doesn't do this. A nun doesn't spread her legs for a stranger on the internet and whisper filthy prayers into the dark.  

But one message is still unread. I left it hanging there like a loaded gun.  

"Your silence doesn't erase the way you begged for me, little sin."  

My core clenches so violently I almost drop the phone. Fresh heat floods out, drips down my thigh. I read the line three more times. My fingers slip lower, two sliding inside me without warning. I was tight and so fucking wet. I pump once, twice and curl them against that spot that makes my vision swim.  

Every time I think "I should stop" my cunt squeezes harder around my fingers like it's punishing me for even considering it. I pull out my glistening hand, bring them to my mouth and taste myself. I was salty and sweet. I suck them clean while staring at my reflection— a fallen sister with her legs spread in front of a cracked mirror.  

I sank to the floor. My back was against the bedframe and my knees were wide open. My phone propped between my feet so I can watch the screen and touch myself at the same time. I scrolled back to another old message:  

"Imagine the sisters sleeping down the hall while you fuck yourself to my messages. Imagine them hearing those little nun whimpers if you forget to bite your lip."  

I bite my lip now. Hard. My fingers plunge back in, three this time, stretching my pussy and filthy wet sounds filling the room. Thumb on my clit, fast little flicks that make my hips jerk. I'm close already. Too close. I haven't come in weeks, all because I was behaving nonchalantly.  

Then the green dot appears. ShadowKing was online.  

My heart slams against my ribs. My breath saws out in ragged bursts.  

New message pings.  

"Back for more? Touch yourself slowly. Tell me how guilty it feels."  

I stare at the words until they blur. The phone trembles in my hand. My cunt pulses around nothing now. My fingers were frozen mid-thrust. Slick drips onto the floorboards.  

I should close the app.  

I should kneel, pray and confess like a normal nun would do.

Instead I spread my legs wider, letting the candlelight catch every wet inch of me. Thumb circles my clit again, slower this time, just like he ordered. Pleasure coils tight. My other hand finds my breast and pinches the nipple until tears prick my eyes.  

I don't type back. But I don't close the app either.  

My fingers move again. Slowly and deeply. 

Fuck this stranger for making me so wet!