~Picture Lecture, Soaked Through~

002

His filthy words from last night still echo in my skull like sin carved into bone: “I’m going to ruin that holy little cunt until you forget how to pray, naughty nun.”

Dawn light filters through the narrow windows of the orphanage chapel, turning the stone floor pale gold. I kneel with the other sisters and the children, hands folded, lips moving through the morning office. My voice is steady. My body is not.

Every shift of weight sends a fresh pulse through the scar low on my belly. It throbs in perfect time with the memory of my fingers last night, circling, dipping, stopping just short of release because he said so. The mark feels branded anew, like his tongue traced it while I whimpered into the dark. I press my thighs together under the long black skirt. Slickness has already started gathering again, warm and shameful between my folds. I hate how easily my body remembers him. I get so wet easily all because of a complete stranger.

Breakfast passes in a blur of oatmeal and small voices. Then the purity lecture. Aunt Dolores, who was Mother Superior’s right hand, had stern and silver-haired. She stood at the front of the refectory with the older orphans lined up on benches. The younger ones are already outside tending the herb beds.

“Purity is not merely the absence of sin,” she begins with a clear voice. “It is the active choice to guard the temple of your body against every whisper of temptation. The world outside these walls is filthy. Lust is a thief that steals your soul one glance, one touch, one thought at a time.”

I nod when her eyes sweep over me. The motion makes the scar flare hotter. I can still feel last night’s edge riding me, the way my clit swelled under slow circles while his words scrolled across the screen. My nipples tighten against the rough linen of my shift. I cross my arms over my chest, pretending it’s reverence.

Aunt Dolores continues. “The flesh is weak. But grace is stronger. Remember your vows. Remember the children watching you.”

The children were actually watching. A little girl with braids named Grace stares at me with wide eyes, like she can see straight through my habit to the soaked cotton between my legs. I force a small smile. My phone burns against my thigh, tucked inside the hidden pocket I sewed myself last Lent.

Aunt Dolores pauses mid-sentence. “Excuse me a moment. The gardener needs me about the roses.” She sweeps out, skirts rustling like judgment.

The room exhales. Whispers start among the girls. I slip my hand into the pocket. Screen lights. One new message from ShadowKing.

I shouldn’t look.

I looked anyway.

“Morning, little sin. Did you sleep with my words dripping out of you?”

My breath catches. Heat floods my face, then lower. I glanced around, no one was watching. I rose quietly, murmured something about needing air, and glided toward the side door that opens to the cloister garden.

The corner hideout is behind the old stone well, overgrown with ivy and shielded by a thick yew hedge. No one comes here except to fetch water for the sacristy. I press my back to the cool stone, hike my skirt with shaking hands. The air kisses my wet skin. My panties are useless, clinging and dark at the crotch. I push them aside.

Fingers find my clit instantly. I was swollen and hot. I circle once, slowly, just like he likes.

I type with one thumb, awkward, trembling.

“This is wrong,” and I stupidly hit send.

The reply is instant. He was waiting.

“Wrong feels so fucking good on you, doesn’t it? Legs apart wider. Circle that clit. Describe the ache. No coming. Not until I say.”

I hate him. I hate how my knees bend wider on command, how the rough stone scrapes my shoulder blades as I lean back. I hate how wet I get just reading his orders.

My fingers move slowly, torturously slowly. Slick sounds fill the quiet garden air. I bite my lip hard.

“So wet…” I type. “Throbbing for a stranger…”

I don’t finish the sentence. Another message pings.

“Stop touching. Edge only. Hold it right there. Imagine my hands wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head while I watch that pretty nun cunt clench and cry for release. You’re dripping on the stones, aren’t you, dirty little whore?”

The word whore hits like a slap. My core spasms. A whimper escapes. I pull my fingers away. My whole body trembles on the brink.

“Proof tomorrow. Video of that dripping little cunt edging for me, sweet sin. Or I start wondering who you really are and trust me, my pretty pet, I will find you if you don’t obey.”

My heart was slamming against my ribs. I was half terrified he’ll make good on finding me. I was half dripping at the thought.

Back inside, Aunt Dolores has returned. The lecture continues. I quickly rushed inside.

“…and when temptation knocks, you must slam the door. You must turn to prayer. You must remember who you belong to.”

I nod again. My thighs are slick under the skirt. Every step rubs my swollen clit against damp fabric. I’m soaked through.

Other men on the app tried. I saw endless dick pics, grainy videos of stroking, crude demands to “show titty nun.” None of them did this. None made my body betray me so completely. Only his words. Only the promise of his voice growling in my ear, only the fantasy of his thick huge cock splitting me open while I sobbed prayers into his neck.

I wonder what his dick looks like. Thick? Veined? Curved just enough to hit that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes? I wonder how his come would feel painting my scar, beautifying my face, marking it as his instead of a surgeon’s mistake.

Aunt Dolores’s voice fades to a hum. The children recite responses in unison. I sit straighter, force my breathing even.

But inside I’m unraveling.

I was given an assignment by a stranger to send a video of proof tomorrow.

Or he’ll find me and God help me, part of me hopes he does.