His Forbidden Obsession
One time, I asked Mother Superior if I could have a new mattress and she sent me off to pray for my materialistic soul. And she was right. A complaining nun is a disgrace. So I almost feel guilty now for burrowing my face into the warmth and protection of the…wait, what is this I’m lying on?
My eyes fly open, the wings of my heart flapping like a wild bird.
I’m sitting on the private’s lap.
My legs are thrown over his massive thigh and my bottom—
Flames eat at my cheeks.
My bottom is notched right into his lap.
In order for the Lord to forgive me this transgression, I’m going to be saying the rosary until I’m ninety. So…
So I might as well enjoy it for a few more minutes, right?
After all, it was an honest mistake. I must have searched out his warmth and comfort in my sleep. It wasn’t a conscious sin.
What is his scent? It’s sweat and soap and…fertile soil. I know that last aroma well because I often help some of the sisters plant bulbs in the fall. The combination of his three smells lulls me, but also makes my belly tingle. That alone tells me I should definitely apologize for my forwardness and go back to sleeping against the window.
Maybe just a few more minutes. Mother Superior is at the front of the bus and we’re tucked all the way in the back. Based on the gentle snores coming from the other seats, I’d say the chances of getting caught sleeping on the private are very low.
Nuns don’t think in terms of what they can get away with, Mercy.
Oh yeah.
I absorb one final second of heat, then start to wiggle my way off the private.
He growls in his sleep and traps me against him more securely.
My second attempt yields the same fruitless results.
While I’m sitting there trying to decide my next move, I realize there is something very large prodding me in the buttocks. A gun, perhaps? I slide my bottom over it, trying to determine the shape and my eyes shoot wide. I’ve never borne witness to male genitalia, but I’ve seen plenty of crucifixes and I know there’s something hidden under the white loincloth. But on the crucifix, the mysterious male part isn’t…sticking out.
Wanting to get a peek at the private’s face to make sure he’s asleep, I peel back my hood fully and look up. He’s definitely sleeping, but he’s far from relaxed. There’s a frustration etched into his masculine features and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Is he ill? Poor man. Maybe I should wake him and—
He mutters something in his sleep and suddenly I feel it. His hand beneath my robes. His palm on my ankle is coarse, but not unpleasant. No, the act of being touched by another human being is so foreign and satisfying, I almost moan out loud. The private’s hand moves higher, coasting up the curve of my bare calf and squeezing my knee, molding it like a sculptor does with clay.
A confusing wetness coats the juncture of my thighs and my breasts grow fuller, more sensitive, my nipples perking and tightening like the blooms of a rose bush in spring. I find myself wanting to open my legs wider—a sign that the devil has sunk his hooks into me and I must fight. I must…
My thighs encounter the scrape of his calloused hands next. They knead my outer thighs roughly, then change tack, brushing knuckles along the inner sensitive skin, right toward my femininity. Oh my Lord, he’s going to touch me there.
No, I mustn’t let him.
I’d have to leave the church in shame.
Already what I’m feeling must be against the very tenets of my chastity vow.
Because I think a part of me wants to know what it would be like if his hand went all the way to my untouched flesh and explored there.
No. No, you can’t allow it.
I gather my will and push Private Griffin’s hand down, away from my womanhood—and he stiffens beneath me. Awake. He’s awake.
I’m going to be found curled into his lap like a kitten and I can only imagine what he would think if he knew what was taking place beneath my robes. I can barely comprehend what his touch did to my body. Is it normal to be so damp?
Slowly, I look up at the private and find his nostrils flared, his lids so heavy his eyes barely appear to be open. His chest starts to lift and fall against my shoulder. I think he’s going to get angry with me. Lift me off his lap and bestow me back on the cold end of the seat. I never could have predicted what would happen next.
“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, Sister Mercy,” he rasps. The hand that was beneath my robes just moments ago is now under my backside, sliding into his pants. “A man with weaker morals would have already taken you by force on this backseat with a hand over your perfect mouth. My morals are ironclad and still you drive me to such a breaking point that I have to fuck my hand to stay sane.”