Harlotsville II: Altar Ego

"I'm sorry, what is colonic irrigation? I was only interested in assisting in the promotion of general health within our church," she said, pursing her lips before anything more revealing should tumble out.

A long pause gave way to an uncomfortable silence as Mother Haywood searched Betty's face, probing it for clues. Betty could not help but eventually look away, for the smallest shame had begun to set in at the thought that her pretense might be more transparent than she'd like to think.

Finally the crackly voice responded:

"I see. Perhaps there was some miscommunication. The pastoral report I received says that this particular subject was highlighted in your previous interview."

"I'm sorry, I cannot say since I'm unfamiliar with the term..." Betty started, but, seeing the unbelief forming in the woman's unblinking amber eyes, she decided to change her tactic slightly, concluding with, "Unless you mean the clysters?"

Mother Haywood nodded silently.

"Oh, yes. Well, I hadn't ever heard of them before now, and--"

"Strange to think that one raised in the aristocracy would be unfamiliar with them," Mother Haywood interrupted. "They're not uncommon among those in your...former class."

Switching gears slightly, Betty changed her tone of voice to one of slight indignation. "With all due respect, Mother Haywood, there are a lot of stereotypes about the rich which are patently untrue. We never had such things as clysters in the household where I grew up. The closest we had were laxatives, which did not really address the issue of holistic health. I was simply drawn to the clysters, or the...what did you call it again?"

"Colonic irrigation."

"Yes, the colonic irrigation, as you put it, because it seems to me as essential and basic as brushing one's teeth. Is it not?" Betty ended her question with a hopeful rise of her voice.

"But of course," Mother Haywood confirmed, nodding her head in. "They are associated with longevity, wellbeing, good behavior..."

"But it was not just the...colonic irrigations I was concerned with when I approached the order with my proposal. I am even more concerned with the general wellbeing of all our clergy, who can then spread the gospel of wellness to all within the Mercy Convent's purview."

A note of skepticism could still be seen lingering on Mother Haywood's stern face, and yet her head continued to nod, the white winged tips of her large coronet swaying dramatically in tandem.

Sensing she had the floor, Betty continued.

"Mother Haywood, I...met many unhealthy men and women in my past profession. Drunkards, lepers...I can never forget their faces, their suffering. Yes, they may have been living in sin, but by the grace of God, if only they knew that cleanliness is next to godliness, inside and out!"

She paused there and did her best to appear gripped by emotion. Inside, the only emotion she felt was anticipatory excitement of a most greedy sort. She was certain that if she stayed the course, she could sway the stiff-lipped old hag after all.

Sure enough, Mother Haywood's head was still bobbing in approval, and when that woman replied, her voice was now surprisingly soft.

"I do understand, yes. Those who live in sin need only know what value God has given them. These earthly vessels, these bodies, are His gift to us. So they must be preserved."

"Absolutely, Mother Haywood. That is what I believe, too."

"Hmm. Very well, Sister Arbach. I will put you in charge of the sisters' Wellness Program on a trial basis--"

"Oh, thank you Mother Haywood!" Betty said, unable to control her joy--although she still made a point of concealing exactly what kind of joy. Her hands wanted to tear off these oppressive robes immediately...but they stayed still at her sides.

"There is no need to thank me, Sister Arbach," Mother Haywood replied, her tone reverting to austerity. "Previously this program was overseen by myself, but I'd appreciate someone else handling it, as I have far too many other duties here at Mercy as it is. But it is the Lord's work, so it must be done with Him in mind. Always remember that."

"Absolutely," Betty said, bowing as she stood up. "Absolutely. I will draft up the specifics of the health plan I had in mind as soon as I can..."

"Very well," Mother Haywood replied, her concern sharply shifting to the paperwork on her desk. "Peace be with you, Sister Arbach."

"Peace be with you, Mother Haywood," Betty said as she almost skipped her way out of the large, library-like office.

_________________________________

"There I buggered her majesty with aplomb, and after sufficient stirring of her bowels, an urgency to evacuate them overtook her..."

"And then?" the confidant pressed with wide-eyed glee.

"And then, her royal anus, already slackened from much vigorous prodding, ejected its odorous contents into the expectant mouth of the daughter, who lay eagerly between her knees."

"My word! The princess, an incestuous eater of faeces? Moses, I cannot say I live even half the life you do!"

"Perhaps that is for the best," Moses replied with an unexpectedly reserved tone. "My friend, there are times when I wonder. Is this the life for me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Sodding royals in elaborate secrecy, only to be quickly ushered out the trash-exits with nary a..."

"...A what?"

"...Well of course, the money is magnificent, but the endeavor does feel shallow at times."

"You are spoiled, Moses!" the confidant insisted, agitating the ale-mugs as he pounded the table with trembling fists. His expression was still one of almost childlike wonderment, though there was exasperation building in his voice.

"I tell you, if I had your life, I would never complain. Do you think scrubbing floors is such lovely work? How about cleaning linens, like some housemaid? I am a slave, Moses. You, on the other hand, make money bedding with beautiful women..."

"Not all beautiful," Moses interrupted. "...And not all women, either."

"What is this?" the confidant said, blinking incredulously.

"I'll tell you. The royal families back home are quite libertine behind the curtains. Strip away the decorum, and you find that many of the men are either closet transvestites, or outright fruits, or both. Some you would never imagine. You know the Duke of Windsor?"

"Edward? The Eighth?"

"Of course. Not only a fruit, but a very dedicated transvestite on a bimonthly basis. Every other Sunday night, exactly between 1:30 and 2 am."

"This cannot be. He is--"

"Oh, but if it were true. I know it is, because I fucked him...though I like prefer to say her, since with me she always went by the name Elizabeth. Two dozen times total over the course of two years. Every other week, Sunday night, like clockwork. I hated it."

"My lord. That is..." the confidant's voice trailed off, his expression sinking to one of glassy-eyed confusion, then consternation.

"It is," Moses concurred knowingly. "It truly is."

"So how many of the royals are like this? The men who...dress as women?"

"More than I should say," Moses said with a side-eyed glance over to the portly bartender, who in wiping the length of his counter had unwittingly come dangerously within an earshot. Moses paused to sip his ale, its unremarkable sudsy flavor causing the slightest wince on his face, and when the coast was clear, he elaborated for his friend.

"Dozens," he told his friend. "The Duke of Kent, York, Bainbridge...all fairies when you get them alone, and of course they pay extra to keep you quiet."

Somewhat dampened by this revelation, Moses decided to resuscitate the mood by resuming the sordid story which had so enchanted his friend moments ago. To his relief, it worked.

"But yes, back to the shit-eating princess," he said with a smirk. The confidant's eyes lit up, and he sat forward in his seat, gripping his mug tightly.

"Yes! And then?"

"And then, once our fetching young girl had swallowed it all, she pressed her lips against the broadly distended anus of her mother, where she hungrily lapped away at the fecal residue there; in the same motion, she hiked her ass up to greet me, the peach of which was glistening..."

"And then?" the confidant nearly shouted, thankfully at a crescendo in the ambient volume of the establishment, which with the addition of a ham-fisted pianist had become raucous in the past hour.

"You know me, dear friend. I cared not much for the peach. Instead I first went straight for the bitch's asshole, for there is no better way to fuck a royal; fuck them up the ass, always, for that is what they are. They are all Assholes. Full of shit, and far too uptight besides."

"Yes!" the confidant cried out in vindictive joy, pounding the table once more. "The bourgeoisie think they can fuck us, with their impotent little pricks. But in the end, we fuck them instead!"

"Haha, yes, you understand me. So yes, I dug a finger up the princess's anus, and there I fished around to find a turd; she grunted, tightening that prohibitive royal hole to no use, but remained stationary, distracted by the flavor oozing from her own mother's. Dismayed that I could not locate her shit, I dug in a second finger, then a third, which proved to be her limit; she shot across the bed, squealing in pain."

"My word. And what did the queen do?"

"Nothing, for she was still in the throes of her own sensations. I grabbed the princess by the ankles and pulled her back in place, and there attempted arse-fuck her I had done to her mother; but the minute the head of my prick so much as grazed the knot of her anus, she declared that her physignomy, being so petit, was incapable of accommodating anything of my size."

"Oh, boo!"

"Yes, I felt the same way. Because of course there is much evidence that even very small women can take large pricks in any a hole--but given her reaction to a mere three fingers, it was difficult to argue with her."

"Tell me you did it anyway!" the confidant urged.

"Well. I am not so cruel, even to the bourgeoisie," Moses replied with a grin. "Besides, this particular princess had shown me some small kindnesses in the past, supplying me with meats, cheeses and pastries from the castle larder that were of far higher quality than average. So upon her request I relented, and I did not plunder her bottom; instead, I made rare use of the bitch's cunt, which only proved slightly less punishing for her!"

"Very well!" the confidant concluded, apparently satisfied enough with the resolution.

"I will admit. I did enjoy it," Moses admitted. "The young girl could scarcely contain the head of my member before I collided with her womb's barrier, which gave her the most adorable, tearful expressions of anguish, I assure you. But the moisture flowing from her tiny gash was copious, tellingly."

"Excellent!" the confidant cheered. "I envy you, Moses. Even if you must bugger the occasional royal fruit to earn your keep, I still envy you. You are rich! And you do get to fuck beautiful women after all! The princess is gorgeous, is she not?"

"I must admit, she is," Moses said with a nod. "I could never be certain of her age, but it did cross my mind that planting my seed in her would lead to the creation of some very handsome babies. But the house would never allow it in a million years, of course. A royal quadroon! Could you imagine it?"

The two men laughed bitterly for a moment, before pausing to take longer sips. Finally the confidant concluded, "Well, Moses. Speaking of which. I must retire if I'm to get to work on time tomorrow, which is never certain. And your witching hours are just beginning, yes?"

"But, I have to fuck a queer tonight," Moses said, sighing resignedly. "It's an all-night shut in, too, with a small audience of other royal fairies apparently. I suppose they pay to wank from a distance."

"Ugh..."

"Indeed, my friend. Well, at least this one looks feminine enough when one blurs the eyes, though he smells. I will probably need one more of these before I go," he added, tapping his now-empty mug. "Service!"

The bartender sent a sullen, purse-lipped barmaid over, who eyed both men with contempt. "Whatcha want," she said dully.

"Another ale. And this one, spike it with a double shot of whiskey."

__________________________________________

Tumbling, tumbling, the thin white tag blew further down the hallway. It clung for a moment to the southern wall, pinned flat by a draft, only to be whisked into the air by the swing of a heavy ebony door.

Footsteps and chatter suddenly reverberated throughout the space as an unsuspecting pack of nuns passed below.

The tag flittered high above their heads, nearly kissing the domed vault, before languidly spiraling back down.

It at last came to rest, somewhat conspicuously, on the floor of the high cruciform intersection that split the cardinal wings.

It wasn't long before a particularly sharp pair of eyes fell upon it.

The observer did not slow her gait, but rather simply swooped low to discretely snatch it up. She glanced at it for a second, finding its markings curious, and noting that it bore an official stamp. She then quickly tucked it away in her habit.

Why she grabbed it, she wasn't sure. Anything with Ms. Haywood's official stamp might be worth dissecting; she was quite curious about the somewhat cryptic inner workings of this place she'd been brought to.

She picked up her pace just as her peers were starting to glance back at her curiously.

________________________________

Of the two dozen women who stood before her, none of them exceeded their early 20s in age; these were relatively new inductees to the Mercy Convent, postulants and novices alike.

Betty knew that most of them were waifs plucked from the streets. Yet despite her history, she could not immediately relate to them. After all, her starting point had been quite different than most. And despite all the years of streetwalking, she still clung to some faint class biases that had been handed down to her earlier in life.

There was a detached piteousness she felt when observing the rows of girls, with their listless expressions and mostly terrible posture.

For a moment, she saw them the way Mother Haywood probably saw her. It was easy to judge others when one felt some sense of control over them. But she had no desire to talk down to them. Instead, she had other ideas.

"Welcome, novice nuns, to our first meeting. I am Sister Arbach, the head of the Wellness Program here at Mercy Convent," she started, using the prim public speaking voice she'd learned from her father ages ago. "Today we will be learning about the benefits of internal hydrotherapy."

Immediately the faces of the girls registered respect upon hearing her manner of speech. After all, common folk didn't talk like that.

"Can anyone here tell me what internal hydrotherapy is?" Betty asked, walking deliberately in a circle around the congregation, her black shoes tapping echoically on the stone floor.

Knowing full well that no answer would be given from such simple young girls, she wasted little time answering.

"Nobody? Well, it is simple. We are all familiar with showers and baths, yes?"

"Yes Sister Arbach," the girls all said in trained, monotonous unison.

"But showers and baths only wash the outside of your body. And yet, think of all that goes on within your body. It has its own wondrous cleaning mechanisms, yes. God has blessed us with that. But He has now also provided us with tools to further those ends."

She halted her movement and looked at the confused girls all standing in their identical black veils, gowns and shoes, and couldn't help but smile a bit.

"I see you don't understand. It is best if you learn by doing," Betty said, stepping over to one of the strange machines that had been wheeled out to the center of the large women's lavatory. There was one machine to each girl, each one a mysterious collection of clinical-looking poles, bags and hoses.

"These devices function to administer what are commonly called enemas, or colonic irrigation. By cleaning the body internally, they promote better bowel function, longevity, energy, mood, judgment, immune function, and a host of other essential benefits."

These unfamiliar terms only dumbfounded her young audience even more, but she continued undeterred. "Now. Would someone like to volunteer in the demonstration?"

Looking around the room, none of the girls seemed willing to elect themselves for participation, though she did not give them long to react.

"No takers, hm? That's fine," Betty said, quite eager to give the demonstration entirely by herself.

"Alright, since none of you will volunteer, I will show you how it's done myself," Betty said with a smirk, perversely enjoying the catatonia on the faces of all of these impressionable women.

"This," she said, holding up the long transparent tube of the nearest machine, "is the nozzle that carries the cleansing solution from the bag here into your body."

She reached out with her other hand and squeezed the pre-filled bag, causing it to make a crumpling, gurgling sound. The bag itself was quite large; "four quarts," Betty informed them, which unbeknownst to them was far more than your average recommended dose.

"A simple flushing of the bowels, held for a timed period and then released, is all it takes to reap the benefits of this particular method. Let me show you."

Her eyes briefly flew to the doors. She had already made sure that the ones on either side of the spacious, porcelain-lined washroom were locked; if anyone asked why, she had a decent excuse or two on hand. They'd been formulated in her mind during those daily moments of idle boredom known as "prayer."

It was unlikely that they'd be interrupted, as she'd scheduled this meeting to happen when most others in the church are breaking for lunch, but she could never be too cautious.

Now was the time. She'd been dreaming about this for weeks. These girls were too new to know for sure whether anything presented here was considered "appropriate" or not; most of them came from backgrounds in which appropriateness was a highly subjective thing, anyway. A perfect audience for her needs...

With that, she turned in profile and flipped up the back of her robe, then tugging her stockings down to expose her large, bare, perfectly round behind.

There was a wash of gasps that filled the space, but Betty's face remained unconcerned, her body language confident. She knew that as long as she acted as if this were all normal and necessary, the girls would probably believe that it was.

"Now now, don't gawk. The nozzle here must simply be inserted into the rectum, which means bypassing the sphincter. As this muscle is naturally closed very tightly, it is usually necessary to lubricate it first before the nozzle can fit through comfortably. This is why, when you aim the nozzle at the center of your anus like this..."

Betty bent and suppressed a moan. She tilted her thick hips towards the wide-eyed girls to give them a better view before continuing:

"This tiny metal button at the edge of the nozzle here can be pressed to release a lubricant. You can press it once, twice, however many times you need..."

There was a creaky squirting noise as Betty spritzed her excited pucker with the clear, chilly and slightly goopy solution.

Not a single one of the young nuns seemed prepared to understand exactly what they were seeing, but Betty could still sense that it was being taken seriously as an aspect of ecclesial education. And so she went on.

"Once your anus is sufficiently oiled, simply push the nozzle inward, through your sphincter, like so..."

Although Betty had never given up the habit of anally masturbating at least twice a day, under the church's watchful eye it'd become something only indulged in fits and starts. A furtive moment while on the toilet, or while in bed, usually had to suffice. But even those were risky, as she bunked and shared the bathrooms with several others.