tagHumor & SatireHot Cross Nuns

Hot Cross Nuns


The petite naked figure pulled the nun's habit over her red-scrubbed flesh, shrugging her narrow shoulders to accommodate the starched coarse black fabric. She cocked her head to let the stiff outer layer open, allowing her short straw colored hair to emerge as though she were being reborn into this austere life every morning.

Rummaging through the top drawer of her simple furnishings she pulled out a white wad of silk. The fishnet stockings felt lighter than ether in her hands as she opened them up to the light. A beam of sunshine shot through the wide-knit threads to bounce off the bristle-scratched wooden floor and caromed from the mirror, in the 20-year-old novice's room, onto the wall above her simple cot.

The spider's web of of sensuality tugged at her belly when she unfurled the diaphanous fabric over her recently shaved legs. She knew banishment from the order would be immediate if her secret were discovered. The danger of it tickled at the damp spot between her legs, a spot that grew more damp each time she took another risk.

What would the Mother Superior look like wearing these?, the first-year novice pondered as she measured the wide-spaced threads against her sleek legs.

For a moment Sylvia was back "on the block" where she grew up, before she was shoved into the nun ideology. She was a young silly girl that fell in love with a married man who presented the world to her on an erudite platter. This world came replete with orgasms and pillow talk: two realms the married man was detailed in. Sylvia cried the night she lost virginity, not because it hurt or that she felt short-changed but because this man did everything in his power to please her. She had been masturbating since she was twelve and this older, masterful man was able to coax supreme physical pleasure from her body at his whim. Not just a simple orgasm but a sheet-clenching, pillow-biting climax that made her weep when the blue sheets of pleasure filled her vision. The object of her lust would wrap her in his arms and pull her close to his body whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Little did she know that the whispers were nothings and his promises held less weight than the stockings she now secreted under her nun's habit.

With her emotional stability trashed by the older man she fell directly into the orbit of one of the twin priests from the local parish. The two identical brothers joined the seminary together after 12 years of Catholic education within the neighborhood diocese: Our Lady of Sorrows on the Bay Shore Turnpike. The twins began their denominational life as a celebrated pair. They proclaimed their devotion to a life in the service of God at an early age and, though more handsome and athletic than almost all of their peers, they were never seen as subjects of sinful indiscretions. Legions of young females had plied their feminine wiles in an attempt to sway the pair's faith, to no avail.

Sylvia had, within the period of one short month, sullied the reputation of the oldest twin — a full fifteen minutes older — and might have brought about his ultimate downfall if she had not grabbed the wrong twin's cassock directly below the belt buckle in a moment childish ardor. With the secret out, Sylvia was labeled a Jezebel, packaged as the same and offered few options for her penance. One of those choices included a gold band on her ring finger as a visible indication of a nuptial commitment to the Jesus Christ of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

Many a bony finger from the diocese pointed towards the nunnery as the only just atonement for this temptress of the fabled twin priests. She agreed to this rather than the alternative, a nursing assistant in a leper colony stationed on Prince Edward Island: a fly speck on the map some 400 miles off the coast of South Africa. It was a island deemed ideal for a colony of this sort being far from civilization and yet considered marginally livable. Sylvia felt a nun's habit was preferable to an island where penguins outnumbered humans 3000 to one during the summer.

The silk fabric of the stockings pushed a lump up into her throat. As she unrolled the white fabric to the top of her thighs her thumb nudged her pubic mound and a sticky thread of fluid tethered her digit to the wetness that seeped out from between the folds of her body. A shudder coursed through her flesh bringing her nipples to attention, threatening to give away her secret arousal to any who glanced in her direction. A hard twist of her nipple, between her thumb and forefinger, only accentuated the problem rather than relieve it and it shot a current of sexual electricity deep into her belly.

"Shit," she whispered, only to suck her lips into her mouth in an attempt to swallow the words already in a balloon hovering above her head. After six months in the nunnery she still felt as awkward as a ham sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah but her illicit pleasures built a nest for nervous butterflies in her stomach each time she broke the rules.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands before she walked slowly to the door. Each step caused a tremor in the young woman's sexual depths as the fishnet alternatively clinched and released the silky smooth skin of her legs. By the time she reached the end of the hall she was nearing an orgasm. Staggering slightly, Sylvia made her way out into the garden through a side door and sat on a gnarled bench that contained several raised knots on the wooden seat. One of these knots had become Sylvia's favorite. She rocked herself to an climax, strangling a rosary between her sweaty palms hoping that no one would notice her exceptional devotion to her early morning ritual.

With a shudder she was finished. She sat for several minutes to regain her breath and with a sigh — both of emptiness and physical satisfaction — rose to take her place at the convent's breakfast table.

"You look flush and rosy, this morning," the Mother Superior chirped when Sylvia scurried into the room, late as usual.

Sylvia shot a weak smile at the head of the convent and sidled to her chair with her head held low, hoping to disguise her body's response to her recent climax.

The day she smuggled the stockings into the convent stood out in her memory. Before a weekly trip to buy groceries and necessary "feminine supplies" for her cloistered sisters, Sylvia telephoned a merchant — Yolanda's Trampy Fashions and Lingerie Shop — near one of their usual stops to put in an order. Breaking away from the group clad in habits, Sylvia slipped in a side entrance of Yolanda's to pick up her purchase. To the raised eyebrows of the proprietor she prevaricated that she was a call girl who had a "special client" in town that begged for a certain look which included Sylvia's present clerical garb.

The store was out of the black fishnet but still had one pair of white in her size. Sylvia took them knowing she would not be able to come back when the black ones were due in. She needed to don the stockings to hide them from her sisters' prying gaze and in the fitting room Sylvia had to masturbate twice in order to control her trembling. A quick lie about getting lost and no one suspected her surreptitious absence.

The buzz around the convent that week was about the twin priests. One of them had decided to leave the priesthood. No one was quite sure, at first, which priest because they were identical but eventually the truth came to light. The twin that had been tempted by the pretty Sylvia had found himself questioning his commitment to the service of God and had gone missing from a leper colony sponsored by the church.

A consensus of the cloistered women put Sylvia at the eye of the ecclesiastical hurricane. Their distaste for her grew rapidly and Sylvia was inconsolable. Even her daily tickle-my-elmo sessions couldn't bring her the happiness she yearned for.

But one bright summer morning as she sat brushing her hair the window to her cell squeaked as it tipped open rousing her from a lusty daydream involving creatures from a 18th-century Flemish painting representing hell.

She spun to face the intruder that clamored through her window. It was none other than the wayward twin priest. He smiled at her and she felt herself melting in his gaze.

He shook his head sadly before he spoke.

"I took the assignment on Prince Edward Island, but was miserable there. Every penguin I saw, looked like you in miniature... wearing a habit, of course. And I realized I didn't want to be a priest. I did it because my brother did it, that's all.

"I wanted you. I've wanted you since the eighth grade. Remember when your fifth-grade class visited ours to reenact the flight from Sodom and Gomorrah? You were Lot's daughter and I secretly wished that I had played Lot, instead of God, so that you would've offered yourself to me in that cave." The former priest sighed heavily and fought back the tears filling the corners of his eyes.

Sylvia's stomach twisted into a knot. This man was everything she ever wanted; handsome, sweet and desirable beyond simple words. His confession tugged at her heart and an overwhelming sense of love filled the young woman's entire being.

"I..." Sylvia choked on the words. "I love you more than anything." She squeaked out her proclamation before she fell to weeping against his chest. His hands roamed up to her shoulders, down to her waist and back up again as he tried to soothe her trembling body.

Gently, he kissed the top of the starched scarf that she wore on her head and he held her body flush against his. She sniffled and pushed him away.

"I don't want to sully these holy garments," she stated softly. She crossed her arms in front of her body and balled up the fabric in her tiny fists near her hips. In one smooth motion she pulled the clothing that separated her from the physical satisfaction she craved over her head and free from her slender shape. She wore only her white fishnet stockings under her habit.

The former priest drank in her delicate curves, his gaze lingering on the portions of Sylvia that made her a female and at last came to rest on the tops of her stockings a mere inches from the entrance to her womb.

"Daddy, likes." He whispered.

"Good..." she whimpered before she pressed his hand to the wetness between her thighs. His fingers pulled the sticky lips of her labia apart while a clear fluid from deep within her fought to keep them closed. A tickle from his middle finger at her clitoris caused her to moan aloud and paw at his shirt with her free hand.

"...'cause daddy's baby needs a fuckin'," she finished, weeping.

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