Six weeks after her vows, Sister Evangeline finds a worn hole in a stall. She kneels. Rain in her veil, a stranger beyond the door. She knows she will go back.
Six weeks after her vows, Sister Evangeline finds a smooth, worn hole in a stall behind a dead picture-house. She tells herself she will only look. Then she kneels. Rain in her veil, gold crucifix tapping the wood, a stranger on the other side of the door, and later her skirt bunched at her waist while she backs up and lets him have her. She walks home stained. She already knows she will go back.
The rain made a map on the train window, each drop a new road leading away from the only world I had ever wanted. I was twenty-three. Six weeks a professed sister of Our Lady of the Thorns, and already on a train to Ashford, to St. Dismas, a parish name that tasted like a joke. Mother Superior’s letter was a folded brick in the pocket of my habit, the paper soft from my thumb worrying the corner. Show them the way. Do not become the way they already know.
The train car smelled of wet wool and something like burnt sugar. A man across the aisle stared at my veil longer than politeness allowed, then looked down at his newspaper like he’d been caught stealing. I touched the gold crucifix at my throat, a familiar, heavy anchor. My breasts felt like a secret weight under the black cloth, a stubborn fact the habit couldn’t quite flatten. I’d caught my reflection in a shop window the day before leaving and seen how the fabric strained, how even a wimple and a severe collar couldn’t hide the fact of my body. I’d looked away, my cheeks hot.
Ashford wasn’t a map. It was a mouth. The other sisters had spoken of it in whispers, a place of soot and sin, where their charity work was a thin blanket over a shivering cold. They meant it as a warning. I heard something else in their voices. A kind of hunger. And I felt a restless stirring in my own blood that had started the very week I took my final vows, a quiet hum under the silence of the chapel that told me the walls of the Thorns were not enough. Not for me. I wanted to prove myself worthy of the veil. And I wanted to see what was on the other side of that mouth.
***
The presbytery smelled of damp stone and old pipe tobacco. Father Donnelly was sixty, with hands that shook a little when he poured me tea. His eyes were the color of faded denim and they didn’t quite meet mine. “Sister Crowe,” he said, his voice like stones grinding together. “A welcome sight for tired eyes.”
He gave me the room above the sacristy, a narrow box with a single bed and a window that looked out onto a brick wall streaked with soot from the mill chimney. Then he handed me a list. Outreach work. Mercy Lane. The docks. The streets around the closed picture-house. His finger tapped the last location.
“Be careful there,” he said, still not looking at me, but at a stain on his desk blotter. “Particularly the public conveniences out back. Old. Vandalized. Best to avoid them after dark if you can help it.”
I nodded, folding the list. The room smelled of beeswax and dust. I unpacked the spare habit, hanging the black wool in the small wardrobe. The door had a full-length mirror nailed to it, a cheap thing with speckles in the glass. I caught myself in it without meaning to. The high collar of my white blouse made my neck look long and vulnerable. The black fabric of the scapular fell straight, but the habit beneath… it couldn’t hide the weight of my breasts. They looked indecent. Heavy. A fact of the flesh the cloth was meant to erase. I turned away quickly, my face hot. I wanted to kneel. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted this unfamiliar room to feel like a cell, like a shield. It didn’t. It felt like a place where the walls could hear you thinking.
My first day on Mercy Lane, the heavens opened. Not a gentle baptism but a righteous, Old Testament drowning. The kind of rain that doesn’t so much fall as it attacks, slanting sideways under the eaves of the pubs. I clutched my pamphlets, the cheap paper turning to pulp in my hand. The habit, meant to be a shield of dignity, became a shroud of wet wool, heavy and clinging. My hair, which I kept pinned tightly under the wimple, felt damp against my scalp. The thin cotton of my blouse, hidden by the black overdress, was soaked through. I knew, with a certainty that made my stomach clench, that it had gone translucent at the chest. The outlines of my bra, the dark shadow of my nipples, would be visible to anyone who cared to look. I hunched my shoulders, trying to disappear inside the fabric.
The church was too far. A block away, I saw them: the public conveniences Father Donnelly had warned me about. A grim brick building huddled behind the derelict picture-house. A haven. Or a trap. I didn’t care. I needed to get out of the rain. I pushed the heavy wooden door.
The smell hit me first. Bleach fighting a losing battle against rain and stale urine and the sour tang of damp concrete. The light was a sickly yellow from a bare bulb high on the wall, humming with a nervous energy that vibrated in my teeth. Black grout lined the white tiles on the floor and walls, making the whole place look dirty even if it had just been scrubbed. I chose the end stall. The last one. A flimsy wooden door with a tarnished brass latch.
Inside, I locked the door behind me. The small space was a tomb. I wrung out the edges of my veil, water dripping onto the already damp floor. My knuckles were white where I gripped the wet wool. And that’s when I saw it.
In the door to my left, the one separating my stall from the next, there was a hole. Not ragged, but smooth, worn down over time. The size of a fist, maybe a little larger. The wood around it was darker, stained from the oil of countless hands, from the friction of bodies. I stared at it. My heart gave a single, hard thump, then settled into a frantic, fluttering rhythm. It was just vandalism. Just a hole.
I couldn’t stop looking.
It was at the perfect height… navel, perhaps a little higher. A dark circle in the cheap wood, a void, an invitation. A dark circle in the cheap wood, a void, an invitation. My fingers twitched. I told myself I should be disgusted. I told myself I should leave. Instead, I stood there, the dripping water from my veil the only sound in the small space, and I looked at the hole. I memorized its shape, its darkness. I did not leave. Not right away. I stood there until my clothes were cold and clinging, until the rain outside softened to a drizzle. The hole was still there when I finally unlatched the door and stepped back into the gray afternoon.
The walk back to the presbytery was a negotiation with myself. Every puddle I stepped in was a reminder. The weight of my wet clothes was a penance I hadn’t earned. Or maybe I had. I kept seeing the circle. A perfect, dark void burned into my memory like a afterimage from the sun. In my small room, I peeled off the damp habit, the blouse sticking to my skin. My nipples, hard from the cold, scraped against the cotton as I pulled it over my head. I caught my reflection in the speckled mirror, just for a second. A woman in a plain white bra and black underwear, her hair tumbling down from the pins. I looked away before I could see anything more. Before I could see myself staring back. I hung the habit to drip over the back of the chair, the black fabric a shroud in the corner. That night, kneeling beside my bed, the words of the Compline felt like ash in my mouth. Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake; watch over us as we sleep. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. But I wasn’t seeing darkness. I was seeing the smooth, worn wood. The perfect, empty circle.
***
I went back two days later. The excuse was thin, a flimsy thing I barely believed myself. The sky was a high, pale gray, the air cold enough to bite. I told myself I was going to check on the old woman on the third floor of the tenement on Mercy Lane, the one who’d coughed into her handkerchief the last time. But I walked past her building. I kept walking until I saw the brick facade of the picture-house. I told myself I just needed a moment of quiet. A place to compose myself before the next visit. The outer door of the conveniences groaned open under my hand.
The smell was the same. The yellow light hummed. I went to the end stall. The latch clicked shut, a sharp, final sound. I didn’t need to wring out my veil this time. I just stood there. My hand, moving on its own, rose to the hole. I traced the edge with my fingertip. The wood was smooth, almost polished. Dark, greasy-feeling. I felt a tremor go through me, a deep, low thrumming that started somewhere in my belly and spread outwards. I pulled my hand back like I’d been burned. My breathing tightened. I should leave. I should go and knock on the old woman’s door and offer her a prayer. Instead, I pushed two fingers through the hole. Just to know the size. Just to feel the air on the other side. The space on the other side was just… space. Colder. Empty. But the feeling of my hand disappearing, of crossing that threshold… it made my own pulse beat in my throat.
Then I heard it. A metallic scrape from the stall next to me. A belt buckle. The sound was loud in the silence, sudden and sharp. I froze. My hand jerked back, my fingers slamming into the wooden panel. I clapped my other hand over my mouth to stop the gasp. My eyes were fixed on the hole. A shadow moved on the other side. I saw a sliver of denim, the worn fabric of a work trouser. I held my breath. I could hear my own blood in my ears, a rushing sound. I waited. I waited for a sound, for a word, for the hole to be filled. There was nothing. Just the sound of his breathing, then the scrape of the buckle again. A zipper. The outer door of his stall creaked open, then shut. Footsteps faded away. I stayed where I was, my back pressed against the tiled wall, until my legs started to shake. I didn’t leave. I stayed for ten more minutes, just staring at the empty dark circle.
That night in my room, I couldn’t kneel. I lay on my narrow bed instead, the rough blanket a scratchy weight over me. The city hummed outside, a low, constant thrum. The hole was there in my mind, a perfect blackness. I pressed the heel of my hand between my legs, through the fabric of my nightgown. The pressure was a shock. A welcome one. I hadn’t done this, not since the final vows. Not since I’d promised my body was no longer my own. But the habit was hanging in the corner, a black shape, and I was here in this bed, and my body was very much my own right now. I moved my hand. Slow circles at first, then harder, the fabric of the nightgown growing damp. I thought of the sound of the belt buckle. I thought of the dark circle in the wood. I thought of a hand, a man’s hand, unknown and anonymous, reaching through to touch me. The orgasm was a sudden, clenching thing that left me breathless and staring at the ceiling, my body slick with sweat. It wasn’t a prayer. It was the opposite of a prayer.
The next day, I did something else. I went to the small shop near the church and bought a new pair of tights. Black. And I bought something else, a small, flat box I kept hidden in the bottom of my bag. Back in my room, I took off the convent-issued thick cotton tights. I opened the box. Inside was a black garter belt, sheer white stockings. I sat on the edge of my bed and rolled them up my legs, the fine mesh a delicate caress on my skin. I hooked the stockings to the garters. I stood and looked at myself in the speckled mirror. My legs looked long, pale, framed by the black straps. It was a secret. A secret under the black wool. I told myself it was practical. The convent tights rode up. These would be cooler. It was a lie and we both knew it. I pulled the stockings on, then the heavy habit, my movements practiced. From the outside, I was Sister Evangeline Crowe. From the inside, I was a woman wearing secrets against her skin. The habit felt different now. Not a shield, but a costume. And I was getting very good at playing the part.
The rain on Friday felt like a sign. Or an excuse. One of the two. It started just as I was finishing a cup of lukewarm tea with Mrs. Gable from the bakery, her complaints about the damp in her bones a familiar drone. Outside, the sky turned the color of a fresh bruise. The first drops hit the window with a fat, deliberate sound. It was an easy thing to say my goodbyes, to pull the hood of my cloak over my wimple and step out into the downpour. It was an easy thing to turn not toward the presbytery, but toward the end of Mercy Lane.
This time, I didn’t pretend. I didn’t carry pamphlets. I wasn’t on a mission of mercy. I was just walking. The habit was plastered to me within moments, the outline of the garter belt a faint line under the heavy wool. My breasts felt heavy, wet, a fact I couldn’t ignore. The outer door of the conveniences was unlocked. I went inside.
The yellow light hummed. The smell was the same. I went to the end stall. The latch clicked. My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely work the buttons at my throat. The collar. I had to loosen it. I couldn’t breathe. The starched white fabric felt like a noose. I fumbled with it, my knuckles scraping the wood of the door. Finally, it was open. I could breathe. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, my eyes closed. Just a minute. Just to catch my breath.
Then the outer door opened. Heavy footsteps. Not dainty. Work boots. They didn’t go to the far end. They stopped. Right outside my stall. The bolt on the door next to me slid shut with a loud thud. I froze. Every muscle in my body went rigid. My heart wasn’t pounding; it was a frantic bird trapped in my ribs, beating against bone. I should have made a noise. Coughed. Something. To announce my presence. I didn’t. I stayed silent, my hand pressed to my mouth.
A knock. Then another. Was it a signal? A code? I couldn’t respond.
I heard the rustle of clothing. The sound of a zipper. My eyes were locked on the hole. A shadow fell across it. Then he was there. Pushing through the wood.
Not a thought. Just a reflex. My body reacting before my mind caught up. I should have scrambled back. I should have screamed. I should have run. But I stayed. I stared.
It was thick. Heavy. Already hard, the skin a darker pink than the rest of him, the head flushed and smooth. A vein ran along the underside, thick and ropelike. He wasn’t clean. Not in a sterile way. He smelled of skin and sweat and something else, something faintly sour, like the damp wool of my habit. It was real. It was anonymous. It was the most terrifying and compelling thing I had ever seen.
I was the one who leaned forward.
The gold crucifix, a warm weight against my skin, swung forward, tapping softly against the wooden panel. I knelt. My knees hit the wet floor, a splash of cold that soaked through the black wool of my habit and the thin fabric of my skirt. The Mary Janes were slick on the tiles. I could feel the cold seeping through the white stockings, a contrast to the heat building inside me. I was a mess. A nun, on her knees in a filthy public toilet, about to… what?
My hand, shaking, reached up. My fingers brushed against him. The skin was hot, silken over the incredible hardness. A shudder went through me, a wave of something so intense it was almost pain. He twitched in my hand. A breath hissed from the other side of the wood. A sound of pure, uninhibited want.
I leaned closer. My mouth was dry. I licked my lips. I could taste the faint salt of my own skin, the air of the stall. I could smell him clearer now, that musky, male scent. I closed my eyes. And then I opened my mouth.
The head of his cock pushed past my lips. A shock of heat, of taste. Not good, not bad, just… him. A little salty, a little bitter. My jaw stretched, a slow, yielding ache. I took him deeper, my tongue fluttering against the underside, tracing the path of that thick vein. He made a sound then, a low groan that was muffled by the wood. It was the most human sound I’d ever heard in this place. It was the sound that broke something in me.
I started to move. Awkwardly at first. My hand was still wrapped around the base, a clumsy guide. I didn’t know what I was doing. I only knew I couldn’t stop. I pulled back until just the head was between my lips, my tongue swirling around the ridge, then I sank down again, taking him deeper. My other hand flew to my own breast through the wet wool, pressing hard. The pressure shot through me, a direct line to the heat between my legs. I was soaked. I could feel it through the fabric of my panties, the garter belt, the skirt. Soaked and aching.
He started to move too. Short, sharp thrusts through the hole. The wood of the door creaked in protest with each push. He was fucking my mouth. The thought, clear and undeniable, made a small, shocked sound escape my throat. I choked once, a sudden gag reflex as he hit the back of my throat. My eyes watered. Tears leaked from the corners, tracking paths through the grime on my cheeks. I didn’t pull back. I just held on, my hand tightening on the base, guiding him, taking it.
The gold crucifix swung against the door, a soft, rhythmic taptaptap that was my only prayer. Hail Mary, full of grace… my mind stuttered, the words dissolving into the wet, sloppy sounds of my mouth on him. The sounds were obscene. Loud in the small space. The slap of my lips, the occasional gag, the slick rhythm of it all. I heard myself making little noises, whimpers and moans I couldn’t control. They sounded hungry. They sounded like a stranger.
His movements grew faster, more erratic. The hand I had on my breast squeezed, my fingers digging into the heavy flesh through the habit. I was rocking with him now, my body moving to a rhythm I didn’t know I knew. My hips rolled, searching for a friction I couldn’t find. I was so close. So close to something, a precipice I was racing toward with my mouth full of a stranger’s cock.
Then his hips jerked. A harsh, guttural sound from the other side. Hot, thick liquid flooded my mouth. A shock of salt and bitter. My first instinct was to pull away, to spit, but the impulse was drowned by another, deeper one. I swallowed. A convulsive, messy action. Once, then again. Coughing, sputtering, come dripping from my lip onto the black wool of my habit. A dark, wet stain bloomed on my chest.
He pulled back. Disappeared. A zipper. The bolt on his door slid open. Footsteps faded. He was gone.
I stayed on my knees. Shaking. The door in front of me was just a door again. The hole was an empty circle. I could feel his cum on my tongue, in my throat. I could feel the damp stain spreading on my habit. I could feel the thrumming ache between my legs, a desperate, unanswered plea.
My hand, still shaking, slid from my breast, down the front of the wet wool, under the heavy skirt, past the garter belt, into my panties. I was soaked. My fingers slid through the slickness, a gasp tearing from my throat. I didn’t hesitate. I pushed two fingers inside myself, my palm grinding against my clit. My head fell back, hitting the tiled wall with a soft thud. My eyes were on the hole. The empty hole. I imagined a hand there, a face, eyes watching me. The thought sent a jolt through me. My fingers moved faster, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I wasn’t praying anymore. I was begging. Please. Please. The words were just breath, just sounds. My hips bucked off my hand. The orgasm was a sharp, blinding thing that left me gasping, my legs trembling, my whole body slick with sweat and rain and shame. I knelt there in the aftermath, my fingers still inside me, staring at the empty hole. The gold crucifix lay against my sternum, a cold, heavy weight.
After, the silence was worse than the noises had been. I pushed myself up, my knees protesting. I looked at myself in the small, tarnished mirror over the toilet. A ghost stared back. A nun with a wet habit, flushed cheeks, swollen lips. And a dark, sticky stain on her chest. My hand went to it automatically, trying to rub it away, but I only made it worse. A smear of white on black. Evidence. I had to walk back to the presbytery like this. I had to face Father Donnelly, maybe, or pass someone on the street. A sister of God with a stranger’s cum on her chest. The thought was a cold knot in my stomach. It was also a hot spark. I folded my cloak tight across my chest and kept my head down the whole way. No one stopped me. I did not look up to see if anyone tried.
I tried to clean myself with a wad of rough toilet paper. It was useless. The stain was set. I smoothed my habit, my fingers fumbling with the buttons I’d undone at my throat. I straightened my veil. I was a mess. And I was going to walk out into the world like this. My body still hummed. My jaw ached. My heart was a frantic, trapped bird again. But underneath it all, a calm had settled. A terrifying, absolute calm. I had done it. I had stepped through the hole. And I was still on the other side. The walk back was a blur of gray skies and wet pavements. I kept my head down. The air on my face was cold. The stain on my chest was a warm, secret brand. I was a sister. I was a sinner. I was both. And for the first time, I didn’t think those two things had to be different. I let myself into the presbytery. The house was silent. I climbed the stairs to my room. I locked the door behind me. I didn’t look in the mirror. I just took off the habit, the stained, sodden thing, and let it fall to the floor. I stood there in my garter belt and stockings, the gold crucifix around my neck, and I knew. I would go back.
***
Two days later. Sunday. After Compline, the church was empty and cold. The incense from the evening Mass still ghosted in the air. I should have been feeling God’s presence. I wasn’t. I was feeling the pull of the street. The pull of the hole. I told myself I was going for a walk to clear my head. Another lie I was getting good at telling. This time, I didn’t wait for rain. I didn’t need an excuse. I just went. The night was cool, a faint mist blurring the streetlights. The picture-house loomed ahead, a dark, hulking shape. The back alley was deserted. My hand was steady as I pushed the door to the conveniences.
The end stall was waiting for me. The latch clicked into place. My heart wasn’t pounding this time. It was a steady, heavy drum. A beat of purpose. I stood there for a moment, listening. Nothing. Then a sound from the stall next to mine. The scrape of a shoe on wet concrete. The bolt sliding home. I swallowed. I didn’t hesitate. I started unfastening the buttons of my white blouse. My fingers were sure. I pulled the fabric open, revealing my breasts, heavy and pale in the dim light, pushed up by the black cups of my bra. I unhooked the front clasp. They spilled out. I dragged the wet scapular aside until the wool cleared the wood. My nipples, hard and tight from the cold air and the thrill, were immediately on display. I leaned forward, pressing my chest against the cool wood of the door. I fed one breast through the hole.
A rough hand cupped me immediately. A calloused thumb brushed my nipple, and I gasped. It was an electric shock. He squeezed, not gently, and a jolt went straight to my clit. I felt his breath on my skin a second before his mouth closed over my nipple. A wet heat. A rough scrape of stubble. He sucked, hard, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth. My hand flew to the door, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth wood. The gold crucifix tapped against the panel again, a frantic, uneven beat. Oh God. The words were a breath, a prayer, a blasphemy. I arched my back, pushing more of myself through the hole, wanting more of his mouth, more of his hands.
He moved to my other breast, giving it the same treatment. Licking, sucking, pinching. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. I could feel myself getting wetter, the fabric of my panties becoming damp, a slick heat building between my thighs. I was whimpering, small, helpless sounds that I couldn’t hold back. He was silent on the other side, just the wet sounds of his mouth and the harsh drag of his breathing. The anonymity of it was a drug. He didn’t know me. He didn’t care. He only wanted the flesh the wood offered him.
I pulled back, my breasts aching, my nipples throbbing. They glistened in the dim light, wet with his spit. I knelt. The floor was cold through my stockings. I was ready this time. My mouth was open before his cock even pushed through. He was different from the first man. Thinner, but longer. Un circumcised. I took him in, my tongue exploring the new shape, the different feel of him in my mouth. I took him deeper than I had the first time, my throat relaxing, my jaw aching with a familiar stretch. I wanted to feel him hit the back of my throat again. I wanted to choke on him.
I started to move, my head bobbing in a steady rhythm. My hand was between my legs, pressing the fabric of my skirt against my aching clit. I was so close already. The wet sounds, the taste of him, the ache in my jaw, the cold floor, the knowledge of what I was doing, who I was supposed to be… it was all a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail.
I felt him start to twitch. I knew the signs. Instead of taking him deeper, I pulled back, stroking him with my hand, my tongue flicking against the head. I wanted to see it. I wanted to feel it on my skin. With my other hand, I pulled the collar of my habit open, exposing the black fabric, the pale skin of my chest. I aimed him at myself.
“Come on,” I whispered, the words foreign in my mouth. “Come on.”
He did. Hot, thick ropes of it splashed across my chest, hitting my skin, my breasts, the black wool of my habit. It was a shock of heat. A claiming. A mess. I watched it, mesmerized. Evidence again. This time, I had made it happen on purpose. He pulled back. A zipper. He was gone.
I stayed kneeling, his cum cooling on my skin, the habit I was supposed to keep spotless stained with my sin. My breath was coming in ragged gasps. My body was humming, a live wire. I looked at the empty hole. One part of me wanted to leave. To clean myself up and go back to my room. The other part… the other part was stronger.
I stood. My legs were shaking. I turned my back to the door. I lifted my heavy black skirt, my hands clumsy. I bunched it at my waist. Then I hooked my thumbs into the sides of my panties and pulled them down, letting them fall to my ankles around my Mary Janes. The cool air hit my wetness. I backed up to the hole, my hands braced on the tiled wall, my cheek pressed against the cold, damp surface. The black straps of my garter belt framed my exposed ass. I presented myself to the empty wood. An offering.
I waited. A long minute. Two. My heart hammered. My mind raced. This was insane. I was insane. I was about to back away, to pull up my panties and run, when I heard the outer door open. Footsteps. Another man. The stall next door. The bolt. My blood went cold and hot at the same time. I held my breath.
A shadow. A cock pushed through the hole. Hard. Ready. He didn’t hesitate. He just pushed into me.
The stretch was a shock. A gasp tore from my throat. He was thicker than the first man, a blunt, unforgiving pressure that split me open. He sank into me in one long, relentless push until his hips were flush against the wood. I cried out, a sharp, broken sound. It hurt. A deep, stretching ache that was almost too much. My whole body tensed.
“Fuck,” he grunted from the other side, his voice a low, rough rumble. “Tight.”
He started to move. Pulling out almost all the way, then slamming back in. Hard. The door rattled in its frame with each thrust. The wood was unforgiving against my ass. My cheek scraped against the tiles. My shoe started to slip on the wet floor. I had to brace myself harder, my palms flat against the wall. His rhythm was punishing. Brutal. There was no gentleness in it. No finesse. Just a raw, animal need.
I could feel my panties around my ankles, a ridiculous, flimsy restraint. The gold crucifix swung back and forth, tapping against my sternum with each impact. Hail Mary, full of grace… the prayer stuttered through my mind, the words a mockery now. …the Lord is with thee. He was. A stranger. A man with a rough voice and a thick cock, and he was with me. Deep inside me.
“You like that, don’t you?” he growled. “You like getting fucked like a whore.”
The word was a slap. A hot, filthy slap. And I did. I did like it. I couldn’t answer. I could only make a sound, a choked sob that was pure, unadulterated need. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. The ache between my legs was a fire now, a blazing inferno of want. I was so close. So close to the edge.
His hand smacked against the wood, a hard, sharp sound. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” I gasped. The word was torn from me. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” He slammed into me, harder this time, and I cried out. “Tell me.”
“Yes… I like it.” My voice was a ragged whisper. “I like it.”
“Good girl,” he grunted. And that was it. That was the final push. The orgasm hit me like a physical blow, a tidal wave of sensation that swept me away. My legs gave out. I would have fallen if I hadn’t braced myself against the opposite wall of this tiny, confined space. My vision whited out. A string of nonsense words fell from my lips, a mix of prayer and profanity. Oh God, fuck, please, forgive me, don’t stop. My body clenched around him, a greedy, milking pulse. The crucifix was a cold weight against my heated skin, a last reminder of a girl I used to be.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound. His rhythm faltered. Then I felt it. A hot, deep throb inside me. A powerful, relentless flooding as he came. It felt endless. A thick, liquid heat that filled me up, spilling out around him, running down my thighs. It was a claim. A brand. He stayed there for a moment, his body pressed against the wood, his breath harsh on the other side. Then he pulled out. A wet, slick sound. He was gone.
I stayed where I was, my forehead pressed against the tiles, my body still trembling. I could feel his cum inside me, a warm, sticky presence. I could feel the cool air on my exposed skin. I could feel the wet floor through the thin fabric of my stockings. I was a mess. A ruin. And I had never felt more alive.
Slowly, shakily, I pushed myself up. I reached down, my fingers fumbling for my panties. They were tangled around my ankles. I pulled them up, the damp fabric a cold, sticky shock against my skin. I let my skirt fall. The heavy black wool settled around me, a shroud hiding my shame. I straightened my habit, my fingers clumsy, clumsy. I tried to wipe the cum from my chest with the back of my hand, but I only smeared it, making a bigger mess. The stains were darker now. Unmistakable. I unlocked the stall door.
The outer room was empty. The yellow light still hummed. I went to the sink, my reflection a pale, haunted face in the dirty mirror. My lips were swollen. My cheeks were flushed. There was a smear of something on my chin. I turned on the tap. The water was cold. I splashed it on my face. It was a futile attempt at cleansing. I could still smell him on me. Feel him inside me. I dried my hands on my habit, leaving damp streaks on the black fabric. I walked out of the conveniences and into the night.
The mist had thickened. It clung to my clothes, my hair. The streets were slick with a fine, oily rain. I walked back to the presbytery with his come cooling on my thighs under my skirt, a secret warmth against my skin. My body ached. A deep, satisfying ache. I felt… empty. And full. A contradiction that made no sense. The house was silent when I let myself in. I crept up the stairs to my room, my footsteps soft on the worn carpet. I didn’t lock the door. I didn’t need to. I was the only monster in this house. I peeled off the habit, the damp, stained thing, and let it fall to the floor. I stood there in my garter belt and stockings, the gold crucifix around my neck. I was a sister. I was a sinner. I was a hole in a door. And I was finally, terrifyingly, beginning to understand that those three things were not in opposition to each other. They were all just… me.
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