Sister Monica Ch. 04

Suddenly the dorm-room door opened, and Steve Dightmann, his pudgy roommate, strolled in.

"Hey, Josh," he said, and then his eyes bugged out. "Heeeyyy. Whose is that?"

He reached for the bra. Josh let him have it. Why not? It's not like it had Sister Monica's name on it or anything.

"Damn," Steve said, studying the bra. "34C. Not bad, not bad at all. Of course, ideally, I'm more of a D-cup man, myself. You know how they say, anything more than a handful is too big? Well, I think whoever said that was so full of shit, he probably hadn't had a good BM since the Clinton administration."

Ah yes. The distinguished tastes and preferences of Steve Dightmann. A real connoisseur. Of course, Steve's favorite sandwich was peanut butter and salsa on rye—but who was keeping score?

Josh snatched the bra back, put it in his dresser drawer.

"Who's the lucky babe?" Steve asked. Josh ignored him. "Well, whoever she is, she's on the conservative side, isn't she?" Steve went on. "That bra looks like it was crafted back in the '50s or something."

That did it. Josh put on his coat.

"Hey, where you going?"" Steve said.

"Out. By the way, you have any luck getting together with that Biology major again?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Shit no," Steve said. He plopped onto the bed, laid back, placing his hands beneath his head. "I keep texting her, and nothing. Nada. Zilch. She acts like I don't exist. Not so much as a single reply. Damn. Guess you're lucky, Josh, having a girl who's stuck on you. At least you know you can count on someone."

"Yeah," he said. "You're right, Steve. I am lucky. Luckiest son of a bitch on campus, I'd guess."

He started to whistle, thinking of the pleasure that was in store for him . . .

♣

Carroll Hall was deserted when he arrived, right on time at five fifteen. He ran, literally, to her door, and knocked.

"Come in," she said. He didn't need to be told twice.

She was standing, in front of her desk, her hair unpinned, her face flushed with arousal. The sexy vixen must have been masturbating, while waiting for him to arrive.

He took off his coat, ripped off his shirt, went up to her. She reached for his chest, and rubbed him in an up and down, circular motion. Then she wrapped her arms around him and they kissed. She was so turned on, so ready . . . he felt his erection stiffen.

They kissed for nearly half an hour, tongues making love to each other, hands feeling, squeezing, reaching, teasing. He reached around her as they kissed, lifted her sweater up enough to allow his hands access to her bare midriff. He caressed her sides, her back, loving the smooth, soft texture of her skin. She moaned in his mouth as he caressed her. Then he ran his fingers through her beautiful red hair. Freeing his mouth from hers, he licked her earlobe, then nibbled on it, wanting to taste her, explore every inch of her. He inserted his tongue in her ear drum, and she laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was so free, so full of spirit, of life.

"Make love to me, Josh," she said.

"Are you wearing your butt plug?" he asked her. With all the excitement of seeing her, kissing her, he had forgotten to ask until now.

"Want to check?" she asked, with a wink.

He smiled, unzipped her slacks, pulled them down. She lifted her feet, one at a time, allowing him to remove the pants with ease. The sight of her panties, with a little wet circle-stain in the front, aroused him even further—though he was disappointed that she wasn't wearing the G-string he'd bought for her a couple of weeks ago.

"Turn around, sexy," he ordered. She did, and he pulled down her panties. Sure enough, there was the pink butt plug, firmly in place. He licked his lips at the sight of it. "How did it feel?" he asked her, reaching up to caress the cheeks of her ass. He kneaded the flesh, massaged her butt, and she moaned and squirmed at his touch.

"It hurt a little at first," she said. "But then it started to feel good, the longer I left it in. And now, I hardly even know it's there."

Perfect. The butt plug had hopefully stretched her out enough. They'd find out soon, one way or the other.

Her butt right there in front of him, how could he resist? He drew his hand back, brought it forward. Slap!

"Ooooh," she said, and leaned forward, bracing herself by grasping onto the desk.

He slapped her again, harder this time, and she moaned, threw her head back. Again. Slap! Smack. Slap. Red handprints formed on the ivory white of her flesh. He reached around, caressed her bare mound (it was freshly shaved; she must have shaved that morning), inserted his index finger into her vagina. She was soaking wet. He massaged her vaginal walls, sure to exert plenty of pressure on the rough grooves of her G-spot.

She turned around, unable to restrain herself. "Please," she said. "I need . . ." Her voice trailed off, as she blushed and looked away. She still had a little bit of shyness to her, still not completely free in expressing her sexuality. He intended to change that, though he had to admit, her shyness was adorable.

He stood up, hurriedly yanked off his jeans and briefs. His rock-hard penis stood, proudly, pointing up toward his belly button. He, too, had given his pubes a fresh shave that morning, and Sister Monica looked at his dick with lust in her eyes.

She reached down, cupping him in her hands, massaging his penis, stroking his hairless balls. Now it was his turn to moan.

He pulled her close, kissed her, reaching beneath her pullover sweater again, finding her bra strap, unhooking it. He pulled it out, threw it on the floor. He would remove her sweater soon, and then they'd both be completely naked. But he wanted her to wear it a while longer. He loved the way the wool fabric hugged tightly to her braless tits. She needed to buy more clothes like that—clothes that accentuated her beautiful body, instead of concealing it.

Behind them, in the parking lot, the lights flickered on. It was full dark outside now, and gloomy in Sister Monica's office. The parking-lot lighting filtered in through the window, but brightened things only a little—the room was full of shadows, cool and soothing. There were no stars, no moon to shine in on them. Thick clouds, like bruises, covered the sky, keeping the temperature above freezing (though just barely), even now that the sun had set.

"Mmmmm," she said, as he continued to kiss her.

Glancing at her desk, even as they kissed, he noticed she still had a pile of essays lying there. Great. Just what he wanted to see.

He stepped back, closed the blinds for privacy, then flicked on the wall light switch. Fluorescent overhead bulbs hummed to life. Not exactly mood lighting, but still—very bright, and better to see his professor's gorgeous body. For a moment, she looked shy again, likely feeling overly exposed in the brightness.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, sexy Monica," he assured her. "Don't be shy."

He went up to her, hugged her, rubbed her shoulders and back, and kissed her again. He felt any hint of tension, of tightness, melt from her muscles as he continued with the kiss.

Eyeing the essays on her desk again, he pulled away, went over to her chair, sat down. He patted his naked thighs. "Have a seat, beautiful," he said.

She sat on his lap, her back to him, as he cupped her breasts through the wool of her sweater, giving them a squeeze.

"Have you finished grading those essays?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Not all of them. I still have a few left." He squeezed her wool-encased tits again, and she moaned. She tilted her head back, kissed him.

"Well . . ." he said. "Why not get to it, Professor?" He picked up the top paper—a word-processed document authored by a student by the name of Sheila Coleman. Skimming the text, it looked like Sheila was writing about the essays of Sir Francis Bacon. He handed the paper to Sister Monica. "Read it, sexy," he instructed. He gave her breasts another squeeze.

"W-what? Read it?"

"Read it out loud. Read it as you ride me. Out loud."

He reached under her rear, nudged her to lift it. She did, and, without needing further direction, she repositioned herself just so, sliding onto him, his penis entering her.

"Mmmm," she purred.

Much as he liked to squeeze her through the wool, he needed to feel her bare breasts now. He reached under her sweater and cupped her naked tits. He massaged them, loving the soft, supple feel of them. He kneaded, smooshed, rubbed, made circles with his fingertips, teasing her nipples.

She began to ride him, slowly, as he continued to fondle her breasts.

"C'mon, sexy," he said. "Read it."

"Josh . . . How can I . . . mmmmm . . . read it when we're doing . . . this." He began to match her rhythm with thrusts of his own.

"I'm sure you can multitask, Sister Monica," he said. He pinched her nipple, and she threw her head back and moaned. "Now read the essay."

She looked down at the paper, continuing to ride him. "Francis B-Bacon lived almost f-f . . .mmmmm . . . five hundred years ago, b-but his words remain . . .ohh . . . relevant even to us of today," she began. Josh was impressed. A good, solid introductory sentence. But he was more horny than impressed with Sheila Coleman's prose. He needed to see his beautiful professor naked now, completely naked.

He pulled the sweater up over her head, tossed it aside. Her dark, lustrous red hair fell against the porcelain of her back, and the contrast brought him to the brink of orgasm. He willed himself not to come, to slow down, think of his grandmother, think of baseball statistics.

"B-bacon . . . mmmmm . . . would have been a . . . ohh . . . wise and needed counsel if he were alive in the first f-f-few years of the 21st century," Sister Monica soldiered on. And Josh had to admit defeat. With her right there in front of him, naked, riding his dick with ever-increasing speed, her slick vaginal walls gripping onto him like a lubricated vise, reading one of her student's essays, not even his grandmother would come to the rescue. He was going to come, and soon.

He told her to get up, he was on the verge! She needed a second to get a hold of herself—she was lost in the passion of the moment—but then she hopped off, got on her hands and knees and took him in her mouth. Her lips felt wonderful on his manhood. Her oral skills, though not perfected yet, were getting better and better all the time. She licked the tip of his penis, teasing him, then went back to sucking him, sliding up and down his nine-inch shaft. It didn't take long for him to come, and he let loose with a full load. She swallowed all of it, licking her lips when she was done. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, moist with perspiration. Some of her hair was stuck to her shoulders, also wet with sweat. And her face was red, flushed with lust and desire. God, she was sexy.

And the party was just getting started.

"You just can't get enough of my dick, can you, Sister Monica?" he said.

She blushed again, breathing hard.

"Well, I'm not one to disappoint a beautiful woman. Lean over the desk, sexy."

She didn't need to be told twice. She hadn't come yet, and desperately wanted to—that was obvious.

She walked around to the front of her desk, leaned over it, her ass sticking in the air, her breasts firm against the papers and clutter on the desktop, her feet planted securely to the floor.

He came up behind her, stroked her butt cheeks, feather-like, with his fingertips. He smiled again at the sight of the pink butt plug.

Now was the time. He pulled it out, and she squealed.

"You like that, kinky girl?" he said.

"It tickled," she said.

She looked so beautiful, sprawled over her desk that way, her fair skin glistening with sweat in the revealing fluorescent light of the room. He saw that her butt had two large beauty marks, one on each cheek, and her back had several beauty marks as well. Somehow, this only served to rev up his engine even more. There was something so erotic about those marks. His erection stiffened, grew, if that were possible.

"You know," he said, "you should have worn the G-string and bra I bought you, instead of those old-lady things you had on. A sexpot like you shouldn't wear granny bras, Sister Monica."

He drew his hand back, then brought it forward. Smack! Right on the birthmark of her right butt cheek. "Ohh," she said.

"But I shouldn't keep you waiting. Sexy, kinky girls like you need a hard dick inside of them. Isn't that so, Sister Monica?"

She nodded, panting. He could almost taste her desire, her lust.

His lust was off the charts, too. Again, he told himself to slow down—don't come too soon. He glanced around the office, at the oak-paneled walls, the volumes of books on her shelves, the pastoral painting beside the door of a green, flower-filled hillside, sheep grazing on the high grasses.

But what he wanted, what he needed, was his Shakespeare teacher's butt. Right now.

First, though, he thrust his penis into her soaking, slippery vagina.

"Oh God, yes," she said. "That is so good, Josh."

She moved her hips back, in rhythm with his thrusts. She was moaning already, nearing a climax. He debated whether or not he should give it to her—this way. But he would. She deserved it.

He increased the pace, reached underneath her, lifting her torso off the desktop far enough to cup her breasts—he never tired of fondling them. He squeezed them, pinched her nipples, and thrust his penis in and out of her with abandon.

She was blabbering now, using her Lord's name in vain—which, considering the source—turned him on greatly.

"Oh God, yes," she said. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

And then she came, with a scream. He had learned that about her. She was loud, and when she came, she came hard.

"Ohhh," she said, and collapsed on the desk, her body going limp. Her arm brushed against Sheila Coleman's essay, the papers sticking to her sweat-soaked skin.

He pulled out of her, and said, "We're not done yet, sexy. Can you go another round?"

She looked back at him, panting, and smiled. "Just give me a minute."

Man, she was magnificent. Insatiable.

But when she felt his penis brush up against the tip of her butt hole, he saw her ass cheeks clench.

"Josh . . .What are you doing?"

"What's it feel like, baby?"

She looked back at him. "But I . . . It would hurt . . ."

"No, it'll be fine," he said. "That's what the butt plug was for. To loosen you up, get you ready for me."

She lifted her body several inches off the desktop. Now she was resting her weight on her elbows. "But, Josh . . ."

"Sssh," he said, and he bent down to kiss her back, right smack-dab on one of her glorious birthmarks. "I'll go slow. And if it hurts too bad, I'll stop. Trust me."

She swallowed, so hard it was an audible gulp. Then she nodded, bracing herself. Was it any wonder he had fallen in love with her?

"Besides," he said, "you're such a natural at sex, I think it'll go real smooth." With that, he caressed her butt cheeks, gently, so gently. Then he inserted his penis an inch into her butt hole—just to get her acclimated to the intrusion. She grunted, but her ass gave way easily enough, the butt plug having done its job.

"I can't believe I was so stupid," she said. "I should've known what that butt plug thing was for!"

He leaned forward, gave her a quick shoulder massage. At the same time, his penis sank in deeper. "Trust me," he said. "You're going to love this."

Slowly, he slid in, deeper, deeper.

"Are you all the way in yet?" she said. He was only halfway, and said as much. "Oh God. I don't know if I can take all of you, Josh."

In response, he slid in another two inches. "How's that feel?"

"Like I have to go the bathroom," she said, giggling.

"You mean, like you have to take a shit?" He pushed his way further in. Almost there. By talking to her, he distracted her from what he was doing. And the distraction seemed to be working.

His balls were just an inch away from her butt. One more gentle thrust would do it. Full to the hilt. He moved forward. In! All nine inches! Now the trick was to move in and out of her without there being pain. . . .

"I'm all the way in, sexy," he said. "Just thought you should know . . ."

She looked back at him. "Really? Wow. It's not bad. Not bad at all."

"It's about to get better."

He pulled out, slowly, then reinserted. She squirmed. Pulled out again, then back in, all the way. A soft moan escaped her.

"Does it hurt?"

She nodded. "A little. But it's starting to feel good."

That's all he needed to hear. He pulled out, then thrust in, faster this time. Her butt wiggled. Out. In. He increased the tempo, the power of his thrusts, and within two minutes, he was full-on making love to her ass.

"Ohhhh," she said as he speared her again. "I never thought it would be so good."

He rammed into her again, going faster, faster, working up a sweat. She was writhing now, moaning, squirming with pleasure.

He reached down, grabbed her hair, yanked her head up so she was looking at the ceiling. And he continued his frantic pace in her butt.

"Mmmm, yesssss," she said. "Oh God, oh yesss . . ."

"Feel good?" he said, ramming home.

"It . . . feels . . . .ohhhh . . . mmmmm. . .. incredible. . . " she said, and climaxed again, letting out a shriek. It was too much for him, and he came, too, squirting deep inside of her.

She slumped onto the desk, completely drained. "Oh dear God," she said. "I'm too old for this."

He laughed. "Most twenty-five-year-olds couldn't keep up with you, Sister Monica," he said. "But hang on, I'll be right back."

But she was so spent, she barely noticed him leaving. He raced down the hall, naked, went into the bathroom, and scrubbed down his rapidly shrinking penis.

"We're not through yet, old buddy," he said to his member as he washed it. "Not by a long shot."

Back in her office, he sat down in her chair again, and she sank into his lap, putting her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him.

"How's your ass?" he said. "Sore?"

"Mm-hm," she said. "But I loved it, Josh. It was so good."

"You like it rough and you like it soft," he said. "I guess you're well-rounded, Sister Monica. You just love sex, period." He nibbled on her ear, and she laughed.

"Hey, you know, I was wondering something," he said.

"What?" she said.

He hesitated. He didn't want this to come out the wrong way. Still, he had to ask. "Do you . . . do you regret having been a nun for so many years? I mean, all those years, you could have been . . ."

She picked up her head, looked in his eyes. "No. Not at all. I really believed it was right for me. And I still believe that. It was right for me—at that time. I wouldn't give up those years for anything. I guess I've just moved on now." She kissed him. "Because of you."

He hugged her, and she put her head on his shoulder again. He kissed her hair, her ears, her cheeks, and before he knew it, they were making out, then making love. There was no hint of aggression this time—just slow, sensual lovemaking. Their bodies rising and falling together. And then, just sitting there, her on his lap, his penis deep inside her as she milked him. No thrusting, no thrashing, no squirming. Just joined together, in each other's arms.

"You know something, beautiful?" he said. "I'm starving. How 'bout I take you out to eat?"

She kissed him, their bodies still connected, still joined. He was only half-erect now, but it felt wonderful, it felt right.

"You know, that reminds me . . . " she said.

He leaned forward, took her left nipple in his mouth, sucked on it. "I'm all ears," he said.

"I . . . mmmm . . ." He was still sucking her nipple. "I . . . want us to spend more time together," she said.