EXTREME WARNING. This is intended for persons of 18 years of

age or above. If you are not 18 then go away.

EXTREME WARNING. This story contains descriptions of

violence and sexual acts. Do not read if these subjects are

likely to offend.

EXTREME WARNING. In no way do I condone any of the anti-

social behavior described in the story. This is an erotic

fantasy, not to be confused with reality.

In the Manner of St Joan

by Grim Williams

Copyright 2006

"Charlie. Are you there?"

"Yes, Naomi. I'm here."

"I need someone to fuck me."

"Go back to your room, Naomi. You know that's not possible."

"Charlie? Please, Charlie! I'm aching for dick. I need

someone to fuck me."

"Naomi. We've been through this before. I can't."

"But why not, Charlie? Why can't you find me a man? It doesn't

have to be you. Anyone will do."

"Go back to bed, Naomi."

"I can't. I daren't. Someone might see me. I'm

improperly dressed."

"Naomi? What have you done? What are you wearing?"

"I'm wearing a thin linen vest and a slip. Nothing else.

I can't go back to my dormitory like this. Someone might

see me."

"Christ, Naomi. Are you mad? I can see everything you've

got. What's got into you? Do you realize what will happen

if someone walks by?"

I ushered her through the door and into my room, pulling her

inside, looking round discretely for evidence of prowlers, and

then breathing a sigh of relief upon finding the courtyard

deserted and in darkness.

I closed the door and stared wildly at her, irate and

frustrated. What was she playing at? She was lit by a

single bare bulb, and the light shone straight through

her clothes. I could see her nipples poking through the

vest like dirty spots in the middle of her globes; and

the shadow of her mound smiling through her skirt,

a triangular fuzz of hair that framed and outlined her slit.

She was obscene!

I could see everything she had: her round bosoms and the

valleys of her cleavage; her golden goose bumps and how cold

and frightened and exposed she was.

"Do I please you, Charlie?" she asked.

I stomped past her, annoyed and wanting her to know it.

I kicked a chair, looking again at the outline of her slit.

"No. You don't please me at all!" I crackled bitterly.

"You're obscene! A disgrace to the Church!"

"I don't believe you, Charlie. You're looking at my pussy!

You're so sweet!"

"I'm not! You're mistaken, Naomi Anne! I'm not looking at all.

That's a lie!"

"I can see that you're looking, Charlie! It's obvious. You're

looking at my slit. You can't deny it. I can tell by the

state of your trousers!"

"I'm not! You've got it wrong. I'm looking at your slip and

its length! God. What do you want me to say? It's too short!

Too thin! It's obscene!"

It was a skirt tied at the waist, and through it I could see

the dark outline of her fuzz and the crack that bisected it.

I could see the regular contracting and relaxing of her

muscles as she did what nuns do to get themselves high.

"I've had a bad dream, Charlie."

"A dream? What's that to me? That doesn't excuse

you coming here dressed as a harlot!"

"In my dream, you tied me to my bed and I was spread-eagled.

You said you were going to help me, and so you removed my veil

and my habit, and you used it to gag me."

"Naomi! Watch out! Be careful! You're on dangerous ground here! 

You shouldn't be here in my room at all, never mind saying

sacrilegious things in my company! If anyone were to hear you!"

"But they won't, Charlie. There's only you and me in the room.

Anyhow, in my dream, you removed my clothes starting with my

shoes. You said I should scream into my gag, and that if I

did no one would accuse me of having committed a sin. You

were trying to help me."

"Naomi. Stop it! This talk is debased! You'll be punished!

Both of us will!"

"I want to be punished, Charlie. That's why I'm here! Listen

to me! Listen carefully! Listen to what happened."

"Naomi! You'll have me defrocked! Your talk is sinful! I

can't listen! You know that!"

"Listen, Charlie. I woke up and found that I was touching

myself, and I was wet and ready to cum. I was in such

panic that I rushed out, needing to find somewhere to pray,

and I left without taking my clothes. I've been praying for

hours, Charlie, and I don't know what to do. I can't get

back to the cloister."

"What a mess!"

"You've got to help me, Charlie. You see, while I was praying,

I got to see more than ever that I needed a cock, someone to

fuck me! It was in my dream. My dream made me see it. I need a

man's cock."

"Stop it, Naomi. You're being mischievous now, and that's not

allowed."

"I'm not being mischievous, Charlie. I'm telling you how I feel.

Listen to me. Why won't you fuck me?"

"You know the reason. I'm a priest."

"God, Charlie. This is the twenty first century! It doesn't

stop Father Johnny popping all the new girls - and Micah

and Sister Vishti are at it like prize rabbits. I hear them

as I pass by her room. If they can break the rules, why

can't we?"

"No! Absolutely not! No!"

But it was a tired no, an uncertain no, because I was asking

myself the same question. Why not, indeed?

It was a good question: the right question. I was listening,

as I've always listened to Naomi Anne, especially when she's

dressed in a transparent white vest and a slip.

The problem was that I didn't have a good answer,

not one I was prepared to share with her alone in my

room.

So I covered my awkwardness by whisking her outside, across

the courtyard, and into a small Chapel. Here, hidden at one

end, was a panel of old drawings. I had to get through to

her, to make her see sense.

So I stood her in front of the pictures, and we looked at them

together. "What do you see?" I demanded, holding her hand,

but wary in case someone intruded.

She frowned, still minded to resist me. "Pictures?" she

pouted, but not really looking, not properly, for in fact

there were six black and white reproductions of old church

engravings hanging upon the wall in front of us, to either

side of a gold cross, and you had to look at them

carefully to see what they were about.

"Go on," I repeated. "What do you see?"

She glared, annoyed by my persistence. "That's all," she

shrugged. "That's it. What else is there? They're pictures.

What else should I see?"

I waited, and that made her angrier.

"They're pictures," she repeated again, stamping her foot, but

then, noting a thin film of cobwebs covering the frames, she

added, "Okay. They're dirty, mucky pictures. They should've

been cleaned of the dust."

"They're copies of thirteenth century originals," I

observed, remaining calm and not rising to the bait. "Look

at them, Naomi. Study them carefully and tell me what

strikes you, and stop being rude."

She made several truculent noises in my direction but then,

reluctantly, after some seconds, she peered tetchily once

more at the etchings.

Each was about twenty four inches in width and eighteen

inches in height. They were detailed, and each of the scenes

was different. The first was set in a secluded garden and

had parallel rows of runner beans at the front and roses

behind. A dark foreboding convent was visible in the

background with high brick walls indicating that the garden

was situated within its protective domain.

The pictures weren't aesthetic. They'd been drawn to teach a

powerful lesson to the illiterate women of their time.

In the first, the one we were looking at, there were a

number of nuns in distinctive black garb. They were standing

in a queue - with those at the back waiting in line whereas

those at the front were being held by a group of frisky

monks. There was a workmanlike atmosphere to the paintings,

with the monks hard at their business.

"What do you see?" I repeated, pointing more generally to

the pictures because I wanted Naomi to reach her conclusions

independent of me. She hadn't actually looked at any of them

yet.

She threw me another angry glance but then glanced back at

the engraving. Then suddenly, and quite abruptly, she

stuttered, and her eyes glistened as the penny dropped and

she understood what was being depicted. She hesitated, and

her frivolity vanished. "Nuns," she stammered in an excited,

stunned, bewilderment, more as a question than a statement.

"Like me!"

"Yes," I agreed, squeezing her hand. "Like you. And what

else?"

She continued looking at the picture, her big sexy eyes

opening wide as she discerned the moral.

A punishment was taking place. The women were being tied in

their turns to a wooden frame and individually beaten across

their private parts. Five of them were fully dressed,

complete with habit, wimple and veil. Five of them were

waiting in line in various stages of undress, one had

already suffered the indignity and was crouched on the

ground, crying, bent forward, one hand clutching her

blistered groin and the other hand clinging to a gold

crucifix and threatening to press it against her tortured

parts.

The final nun was strapped to the frame, her body arched and

taut, and there was a crucifix around her neck, hanging

between her naked breasts, and she was screaming with pain.

"These are historical documents," I offered helpfully,

watching Naomi's querulous, consternated reaction. I could

see her eyes darting across the picture, focusing on each of

its elements in turn, absorbing the separate predicaments

and emotions. "In medieval times," I commented. "Convents

were morbid, desolate places, full of wretches who cared

little about religion or God. Nuns weren't devout. They were

ordinary, earthy girls with limited pleasures, and like you,

they itched to be laid. They were only here, because, to

their misfortune, they'd been secreted away by moralistic

families anxious to conceal stigmas too shameful to be

endured: anything from an illegitimate pregnancy to an

abusive father, to an unpleasant disagreement with the law."

Naomi's eyes burned and she looked at me brightly. Now, she

was listening and alert. There was no question but that I

had her attention. "Why are you showing me these paintings?"

she whispered hoarsely. "What are you doing? I've already

told you the mess that I'm in, how I've prayed and prayed to

God, but without finding any succor. I'm ordinary and mortal

and I need to be screwed, Charlie. Given that's my problem,

how is this relevant or helpful?"

I hesitated, for I was a priest and she was a nun, and I'd

already overstepped the mark by some considerable distance.

If anyone found us together at this hour, in this place,

with her dressed as she was, we'd both be in trouble: serious

trouble. But that was a problem for later. Right now I

had her attention, and I decided to be bold and seize the

moment and help her, because I knew how to do it.

"These pictures make you horny, don't they?" I inquired.

"They make you want to caress your pussy. Tell me it's so."

She glanced hurriedly at the floor and squeezed her legs

together, and rubbed her tongue across her lips. But she

said nothing.

"Don't they?" I insisted.

She looked up, her wide blue eyes shining fiercely. "Do you

want me to answer you honestly?" she replied.

"Yes, Naomi. Honestly. Tell me the truth. I'm your priest so

you must be straightforward in your abswer. Do these pictures

turn you on?"

She swallowed awkwardly, and I noticed that her face had

flushed a delicate and beautiful pink. "Absolutely," she

declared, with a shy, embarrassed intensity. "I'm in heat,

Charlie. I'm leaking. You wouldn't believe how horny I am."

She has a pretty, innocent face and an earnest, open

expression that shadows her mood, and so I could tell

that she was telling me the truth.

"Because you imagine yourself being tied down and beaten?" I

asked her. "Is that it? Is that why you're excited?"

"Oh, Charlie, stop teasing me! It hurts. You know what I'm

like." She rubbed her midriff with the flat of her hands,

and then lower into her groin, just stopping at the edge.

"I'm a grown woman and I have female desires, and I can't

ignore them. I can't. You say that I'm a nun and married to

Christ, but I can't live my life in denial. I can't. I'm

twenty six years of age, Charlie, and a virgin, and it's

time that I moved on. I have to be laid. I'm so horny that

it hurts. I'm in pain with it and tired from the strain

of holding it in, so please, Charlie. Help me, and let me

move on!"

I coughed, embarrassed by the honesty and unsure how I

should answer, for this wasn't an area I was trained for, or

even permitted to discuss. Neither of us was allowed to

discuss sex except in the sanctuary of the confessional.

There, being her priest, I could talk about such matters

freely and openly, and help her: but not here.

"The Lord will forgive me," she shuddered, looking to the

heavens as if hoping for some absolution that didn't come.

"He'll understand that that I have to be corked."

I cleared my throat, and mumbled an unhappy response,

confused because I'd known Naomi a long time and we were

like brother and sister. Once, when she'd been ill I fasted for

seven days hoping it would help her, and when she was better, I

spent a month's allowance on perfume and makeup, for she'd

never bought such trifles for herself. She doesn't like to

appear self-indulgent, but since I'd given them to her as

a present, there were no scruples for her to wrestle with.

I remember how she blushed, and stumbled, and said that I

shouldn't have bought then, and then she rushed in a flummox

from the room. Minutes later she returned with some color

applied to her cheeks and there was the faintest hint of

gloss toning her lips. She beamed and handed me a lily

that she'd cut from the garden.

And she kissed me.

I thanked her, and only later did I recall that I hadn't

reprimanded her for cutting the flowers without the

Mother Superior's permission.

There are no favorites amongst the sisters of St Joseph, but

Naomi Anne is certainly a rose amongst equals.

"You're a very special woman," I reminded her awkwardly.

"You're a nun and you have pedigree, a heritage. Men may

tempt you towards sin, but you must be determined to stay

modest and chaste. Always. That's the vow that you took.

Remember who you are, and keep to your integrity."

I cursed my ineptness because I'd been looking for something

insightful and helpful to share with her, and instead I'd

come out with cliches and platitudes. What kind of help was

that? I screamed at myself. I yelled and stamped. What good

are shallow words and axioms to a woman who is desperate for

understanding?

She sighed, and reached over and grasped my hand in her own.

"It doesn't ease the aching," she said, weaving her tiny

fingers into mine. "I know you mean well, but I have to be

fucked, Charlie, not counseled and psychoanalyzed. Maybe

it'll help sort my head to be fucked, or maybe it'll be a

mistake that I'll regret for the rest of my life, but I've

got to do it. I'm not a child, Charlie, and you have to

believe there's nothing wrong with my faith."

She gazed feverishly, almost self-consciously, at the second

of the pictures, the one on the other side of the big cross.

In this one a nun had been stretched out between two sturdy

posts and she was being beaten by a pair of athletic looking

monks, while three of her sisters stood watching, each

holding a black habit modestly across her naked flesh whilst

waiting disconsolately for her own turn between the posts.

Once again, it was the poor wretches' pussies that was the

focus of the chastisement. The whip had been drawn at the

moment of impact, rearing up snakelike towards the victim's

open slit, and about to strike.

Once again, each of the women in the picture was wearing a

crucifix. Despite their clothes having been removed, this

had been left them. The nun who was being whipped had been

drawn with a particularly large jewel encrusted icon hanging

from her neck, and this symmetrically bisected her plum-like

breasts.

To the side of her, an elderly Mother Superior sat upon a

wooden, high-backed chair with her head covered and lowered.

She had a string of prayer beads looped around her hand, and

with it she was counting off the strokes. From what I could

discern, based upon the number of beads that remained, there

were many strokes yet to deliver.

Behind this scene and hiding in the background, with their

eyes and wimples poking over a heavy display of purple

wisteria and white clematis were a group of young novices,

appearing harried and aghast, needing for the sake of their

morbid curiosity to see the ongoing punishment but yet too

frightened to look.

For a second time I watched Naomi assemble this scene from

its random assortment of pieces, her eyes flitting from the

old Mother Superior on her chair, to the inquisitive

novices; from the frightened terror-stricken nuns clutching

their habits and awaiting their turn, to the muscular monks

wielding the whips, their sleeves rolled to the elbows,

their faces a picture of stern concentration; and finally,

Naomi's wide blue eyes settled on the undignified, tortured

shell at the centre of the picture, the subject of the

maltreatment. She looked at the child-like breasts, the

long flat stomach, and last of all, the open legs.

It took a while for the images to do their work within her,

but when they had, she laughed nervously, hiding her greed

and her gnawing sexual hunger. "Why does it always have to

be nuns being punished and never the priests?" she choked,

drying her lips on the back of her hand. "And if it has to

be the nuns - if God so foreordained it - why don't we see

the cocks of their tormentors, so we can observe how what

they're doing affects them. That's the picture I want

to see."

I felt empathy for her and I yearned to reach out and hold

her, to crush her within my embrace and tell her that I was

going to screw her and make her happy, but I couldn't. I was

a priest, and that would have been wrong, so I resisted.

"There is a very special picture within the series," I

acknowledged, a little stiff and detached, a little somber,

fighting my struggling emotions. "It isn't here, because

it's controversial. There are no naked men or angry

excited cocks, but... it does go some way to what you're

after."

She looked at me sharply, her eyes glazing over. "You must

show me this picture," she said simply. "I need to see it."

"No, Naomi. I... can't. I don't think so."

"Charlie? Why not?"

I tightened my grip around her waist, my fingers journeying

up her spine to her shoulders. Here, her vest had narrow

straps with bows neatly fastened, tying the garment

together. I reached for these and pinched them together,

clasping the tiny bows and knowing that with one twitch I

could undo them and reveal her to the watchful image of

Christ. Naomi trembled and cowered, waiting, but she did

nothing to prevent me. She accepted my power: that as her

priest, I had authority to do with her as I wanted.

"Because it's not right," I said. "It's... distressing."

She hooked her arm into mine, and lifted her neck to kiss

me, her hands shaking with desire. "I don't care. You can't

arouse my curiousity and then deny me. It's not fair, so at

least tell me. Describe the picture so I can see it with my

mind's eye."

"I... I... can't."

Suddenly I couldn't help it. I was thinking of that final

picture and I was overcome with my lust. I threw an arm

around Naomi's shoulder and mashed her to my chest, and she

gasped, groaning and gripping my arm like she was in pain,

but with her body relaxed. "I know you're not a child,

Naomi," I gabbled, dabbing small kisses onto her face. "If

you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You're a

grown woman, and you're a nun, a good nun, and you have to

trust me to help you. I know what I'm doing."

She trembled at that, not because of my words, but because

my arm was looped around her shoulder, and my fingers were

touching her ribbons, and she'd never been touched by a man,

and I was more than that: I was a priest, her priest, a

person she admired and was fond of, and she was aroused,

confused and afraid, and she didn't know what to say or to

do or to think.

"Oh Charlie," she gasped, her face falling feverishly

towards her chest. "I need you so badly, your cock drilling

my pussy. I think about it every second of every day and I

can't wait any longer. Plenty of priests do it, Charlie.

They've done it since the founding of the Church. You know

it; I know it. God would have found a way of protecting us

nuns of it were a problem, Charlie, but he hasn't. It isn't.

My body welcomes you. It welcomes your cock. I want to suck

it; to touch it. I want you to screw me."

I felt sorry for her because she was in such pitiable need

- but what could I do? I wasn't one of those priests that

she'd mentioned, dipping his crucifix into every cup he

found empty.

To me: being a priest was more than just that. It's about

being true to oneself.

"I'm hot, Charlie!" she panted, pushing herself against me

with growing agitation. Her hands were pulling at her hair,

lifting it into a pile and knotting it into a tangle. She

couldn't keep still. "Oh, God, Charlie! Oh God! You have to

help me! You have to!"

The whirring in her groin pushed at her cervix and from

there to the pit of her stomach and it tightened into a

ball.

She was shaking. Her hands were tight and clammy. "I need

it..." She was sweating. "Oh God! You know what I need."

I felt her excitement: the long repressed sexual desire.

"Naomi," I warned her, pulling back and holding her by the

shoulders. "Naomi Anne. This is dangerous. Stop it. You must

get this in proportion. Slow down. I haven't changed. I'm

your priest. I want to help you, but not in the way that you

think. We're looking at engravings and you're identifying

with the women. That's normal. I've made you horny. That's

okay. I know about these things. I've listened to troubled

confessions and I know how women become aroused at the idea

of being stripped naked and beaten. I know from experience

that it isn't the pain that's exciting but the helplessness

and vulnerability. That's you, Naomi. You're aroused at the

idea of being forced to strip, and then being beaten by the

whip. But it's a fantasy. It's nothing specific to me."

"But it is you, Charlie," she cried. "You promised to help

me. You said you'd do it if I joined the martyrs of St Joan,

if I humiliated myself and wore the white dress of penance.

Well here I am, I've done what you asked. Now fuck me."

What could I do? It was true. I remember the conversation. I

said it a long time ago while taking her confession, never

dreaming that she'd do it. I'd forgotten the promise, but

here she was dressed like St Joan, and I was as horny as

hell.

What was I to do?

"Naomi, listen to you? Do you know what you're saying?"

My cock was in the ascendancy and my judgment was clouded.

Naomi's skirt was so thin and artsy that I just wanted to

rip it off and bang her.

But I couldn't. I was a priest and she was a nun.

"Oh, Charlie?" she grieved, when I stubbornly said it. "What

have I done? Why won't you do it? What's wrong with me? Why

not?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," I mumbled awkwardly. "Nothing at

all. You're a beautiful woman, Naomi, and another man

wouldn't hesitate, but you must understand: I'm your priest

and I made a mistake. I should never have made those

ludicrous promises. Never, and that's my dishonor. It isn't

that I don't care, but that I do. I care so much about my

dear little friend that I could never abuse my power over

her."

She thought about that, somewhat sullenly, somewhat

emotionally, her arms wrapped around my neck and her face

resting within my cowl.

We stayed like that until the shadow of the moon passed upon

the picture in front of us, and we saw the tormented,

agonized face of the nun emerge from the gloom.

It was like a portent. Naomi shuddered and whispered, "I

don't want to be beaten, Charlie! It frightens me."

I knew by those words that she'd crossed a line, and the

pictures had done it. She was no longer imagining herself

being fucked, but she was inside another fantasy, one that

I'd created for her from the pictures. Contrary to her

words, she was imagining herself tied up, humiliated and

pussy whipped, exposed to the pleasure of strange men.

Her head was buried in my surplus, and it moved a fraction

as she peered anxiously from the warmth afforded by my

vestments to the image hanging from the wall. I felt her

smallness and her heartfelt desperation, and I saw the

wildness in her eyes. There was an untamed rawness that

wasn't because of the hypocrisy of the tormentors raining

their blows or because she shared the fear of the terrified

women voyeuristically looking on. It was because she wanted

to be the nun in the centre of the picture, but she was

petrified to admit it.

She told me again that she didn't want to be whipped,

whispering the words softly as if to convince herself of

this fact, but even as she said it I knew she was lying, and

so did she; and she hoped I would understand what it was that

she meant.

It wasn't that she was perverse. It was my attention she

craved. She wanted me looking at her pussy, aiming the whip

and laying the strokes. She wanted to be desired and

desirable. She wanted my cock to be hard and to see it erect,

and to watch it, and to know that her body had done it.

Gently, I caressed and supported her shoulders, massaging

her neck, and my arms cradled her waist. "This isn't your

preferred choice," I soothed her, fondling her gently, my

palms sliding down her spine to the spot where I felt a

trickle of warm sweat and the soft down of her fine hair.

"But it is a practical solution. If I fucked you I would be

defrocked and removed from office, and I would see you no

more. But a pussy whipping is allowed, it has to be. These

engravings are my precedent."

My fingers continued to caress her back, and I sensed an

insatiable fire erupting in her soul.

"Charlie!" she implored, looking up from my cowl, her arms

clinging to my tightly. "Charlie. Don't touch me unless

you're going to go all the way with this! Don't tease me.

It's unkind! Your hands are inflaming me and I'm lost,

Charlie. I'm in your hands. I'll do anything you ask.

Anything at all. I'll be your slave. I'll go to the

stake and let you burn me like they did to St Joan.

I'll walk naked, and lift myself onto the pyre. I'll

burn for you, Charlie. I'll be your torch. I'll do it and

rejoice. You only have to demand it. That's the power

you hold on my flesh. You've no idea what it's

like to need a man so badly that it fills your every

thought... your every prayer... every day... every night..."

Her body arched and groaned and pleaded.

"Don't tease me, Charlie. I beg you."

My fingers edged to her side and tickled her waist. "You

should be punished," I whispered thoughtfully, my fingers

gliding along her ribs. "Look at your dress, Naomi. It's

immodest, prurient and indecent."

Naomi held her breath, comprehending my intentions and where

I was taking her, that I was prepared to take her all the

way, but not with my cock, with my whip. "You want to

punish me?" she whispered, her vivid blue eyes

bottomless and unblinking.

I nodded. "Will it turn you on to punish me, Charlie, to

beat my naked pussy? Will it make you excited and erect?"

Her face glowed and it radiated pure joy.

Again I nodded.

"You'll make me scream. You'll whip me where I am the most

sensitive and vulnerable. You'll hurt me."

"It'll hurt you immensely. It'll drive you insane."

"Don't you care that it'll hurt me?"

I shook my head. "I prefer to hear your beautiful screams."

She swallowed hard, and her hands were trembling. "Where

will I be when you do it? In my room? Will you

tie me to my bed?"

I shook my head. "No. Not in your room."

"Then where? In your confessional?"

"No. Not there, either. It'll be done in this chapel. I'll

tie you to the altar."

"Charlie?"

Very deliberately, I plucked the narrow straps that criss-

crossed her waist, not to undo them, but to remind her that

I could.

I was her priest and I could reveal her, undress her. I

could do anything I liked.

She clenched her teeth and sucked in her breath, and for the

first time, I could feel her breasts pressing against my

chest and her groin biting my hips, searching for friction.

She was weak for a man, for me. Weak. Weak. Weak.

She should have been wearing a long flowing habit, thick

shoes and a white veil, but she'd come downstairs wearing

nothing but a white linen vest and a slip. She'd awoken

suddenly, she'd told me, in a pang of erotic desire, almost

at the culmination of a terrible sin.

Her pussy had been inflamed. "I even touched it," she'd told

me. "I couldn't help it. It just happened."

"And that's why you fled from your room?" I enquired.

She nodded.

"And did you get any improper relief from the manipulation

of your pussy? Did you climax?"

She shook her head, confused as to whether she should have

been proud or ashamed by this answer.

But I was proud of her. It had taken guts to flee from that

room, to come searching for me. It would have been easy to

give in to the flesh, but she'd resisted. Before the desire

had become fertile she'd run to the tower of the Almighty,

but she'd found his minister, awake and watchful; and I was

proud of her.

She was my nun. Mine. She'd come to me in the most desperate

of states and she'd found me alone in my room.

It was the answer to her supplication.

"In another few minutes the nuns will arrive for Morning

Prayer," I told her. "And when they do, I'm going to

lead you to the altar and I'm going to undress you.

I'll tie you to its corners, and there, in front of

them all, I'm going to punish you."

"Charlie!" she wailed. "You can't! Not in front of the

sisters! Oh God! You can't!"

"Not just the sisters, but also the bishops."

Her jaw dropped in horrified terror. "No! You can't do it,

Charlie! I beg you!"

I gazed at her in affected surprise. "Is this the nun who

promised to do anything I wanted? Who would burn like St

Joan? Is this the minister who'd walk naked through

turbulent crowds? Is she afraid of an old fashioned public

pussy whipping?"

Naomi groaned and whimpered, and her legs buckled at the

knees. Her face blossomed and deepened to a beautifully red.

"It isn't the whipping that frightens me," she wailed,

clutching my arm, digging in her nails. "It's that they'll

see how wet I am. I'm so ashamed!"

"Don't be," I said, removing her hand. "It's the moisture of

friendship. It proves that you want me."

"Oh my God. Don't do this to me," she flushed, her tiny

voice frail, coy and defenseless. "I know you can make me do

as you choose. You can make me walk the naked walk or hang

me on the big cross. You might even enjoy it, Charlie. I

think you would. You can take me to the snuffery and torture

me with the rusty implements they keep there, just like the

priests did during the Holy Inquisition. You have the right

and the power. You can punish me anyway you like. I know

that, but please, I've confessed impure thoughts to you,

base and obscene. I've trusted you with my innermost

reflections. Don't use them against me. If you really can

do anything, Charlie, then, please, don't play with me.

Fuck me, instead."

"I can't. Not that, Naomi," I whispered, apologizing and

consoling her as best as I could, caressing her face and her

arms. "It's not about the Church, it's about me. I can do

anything else, but not that."

"I don't understand? How do you mean? About you?"

"My sweet one. If it were anyone else, I'd do it. I would

fuck them. I've never told you this before, but I've fucked

many of the sisters of St Joseph. I do it because it helps

them. I see their pain and frustration and I want them to be

happy. They, on the other hand, are content to lie with me

because I'm their priest, and they consider it a service to

God. I do it for them, my love, to make them happy,

not for myself. But with you, it's different. With you,

I'm in danger as a man. Do you understand, my dear? As a man!"

She looked again at the picture in front of us and her

breathing was fast and irregular. She was crying. She

pointed to the nun hanging between the posts. "Do they get

to climax, these nuns, when they're beaten?" she wept.

Her face was buried in my chest and her shoulders were

heaving with emotion. I held her tightly, but caressing her

gently. "Maybe if the beating was fierce it might happen," I

offered kindly, stroking her hair. "We could try. Together, we

could try. We could make it happen. I could do that for you,

for my sweet little Naomi Anne."

Her body ought to have been hidden and cloaked: her hair,

her legs, and especially her figure. Instead, her dress was

thin, insignificant and gossamer: so delicate and fragile:

and so deliciously inadequate - and she wore nothing beneath

it, and I felt the stirrings of sin fully awake in my groin.

I was lost. As a man.

She studied the pictures some more, and her face became

flushed. "And this is for real?" she whimpered softly. "This

happened? Nuns were actually whipped across their pussies?

The priests really did this?"

"They were prisoners," I explained, lowering my voice and

kissing her passionately, and caressing her hair. "There

were no external checks and balances, no one to look after

them. Their warders were priests who dominated every aspect

of their lives. A nun received direction from the priests

about everything: from when she ate to the underwear she

wore. The clergy had control - as I have of you. It

happened, my love, and it will happen again. I will tie you

across the altar and beat you for your lack of modesty and

as penance for your impure thoughts. I'll do this in front

of the holy sisters and also the bishops. Do you understand

that, with your legs apart and your breasts completely

exposed?"

Naomi's nipples had grown since I'd last looked at them. I

could see clearly them through the fabric of her vest.

"You'll beat me like in the picture?" she stammered, her

eyes dark with emotion.

"Yes."

"Because I'm dressed in the manner of St Joan?"

"That's right, Naomi. Because you're dressed like St Joan."

The expression was a euphemism based upon a picture in which

St Joan of Arc is on the stake being burned. In it, she's

seen calling to the Lord, entreating his mercy, while an

assorted crowd of clergy, soldiers and commoners look on.

She's adorned in a thin linen dress, torn at the top and on

fire at the bottom, and the artist had drawn her breasts and

nipples peeping through the rent, and the garment is so

sheer and transparent that St Joan's twisted legs and

womanly fuzz are visible through the disintegrating cloth

and the flames.

Naomi bit her lip. Being dressed in the manner of St Joan

was a state of immodesty little different to nakedness - but I

was talking about removing even that. "You'll tie me to the

altar," she faltered.

I nodded.

"You'll beat my naked pussy and all the sisters will be

looking."

"And also the Bishops," I agreed. "I'll beat you between the

legs like in the etchings. And maybe your breasts too. I

would like to beat your breasts."

"Oh my God! My breasts?"

Her jaw dropped. This was new to her. The thought of being

beaten across her bare breasts was terrifying and yet also

overpowering and liberating. She didn't know what to do with

her hands and she rubbed her legs together whenever she

thought that I wasn't looking.

I continued, reminding her once more to look at the

engravings.

"The nuns spent all their waking hours dreaming about sex. I

mean, what else could they do? Sex was forbidden; as was

masturbation - as it still is - but these were healthy young

women, who couldn't read - definitely not Latin, the

language of the Church, the tongue in which the books were

written. The girls were without religious conviction and

their boredom was intense, so it became a battle of the

wills: between them and their masters, and in this fight,

the priests were brutal. The girls were never allowed to be

alone: not even to bathe or to shit. They were accompanied,

usually by another nun or occasionally by a priest."

Naomi nodded, wishing for a similar restriction, for she had

only her personal faith as her safeguard.

"Come nighttime," I told her. "The poor women were bound to

their beds so that they couldn't accomplish in sleep what

was forbidden by day."

"I wish you would tie me to my bed," Naomi murmured. "It

would help me to sleep. And if you whipped me, my pussy - I

wouldn't mind that. I would bless God for it."

I nodded. "I have control over you now, Naomi Anne. You're

mine. I can tie you wherever I like, at any time I like:

either clothed, or naked, or in any intermediate state. I

can take you to the monastery and hang you on a cross in

front of the bishops. You would stay there all day, in front

of them all."

Naomi's flush deepened. "If you tied me like that," she

murmured; her head lowered and submissive. "I'd have bad

thoughts, terrible wicked ones."

"Which you would confess to me in the usual way," I

insisted. "And I would punish you. I would beat you. I would

beat you myself."

Deep down, I sensed that she wanted to be beaten. Why else

does a nun choose the path of St Joan? She wanted to be

stripped and for me to look upon her nakedness, for me to

arouse her with my whip and then touch and caress her and

make her feel better. She'd described it to me in the

confessional: her body, her breasts and her thighs twisting

in pain. She'd asked me to beat her as penance for her sins;

but it wasn't really penance she was seeking. It was an

emotional satisfaction and contentment.

"There's no going back," I mumbled, hearing bells

alerting me to the time. I kissed Naomi's ruby lips, and

they parted and accepted my tongue, and her eyes fluttered

closed. A second set of bells added to the first; louder and

closer. Morning had come. "There's no spitting out," I

warned her, clinging to her tightly. "This is for real,

my love. You understand? There's no second guesses or safe

words. If you don't play the games, you're dead meat and

destined for the torments of hell!"

She opened her eyes and threw me a slow, disdainful scowl

that darkened into a gnawing sexual hunger.

"Charlie?" she growled, clasping my hand and peering at me

with large desperate eyes.

I waited. I could hear the distant singing of nuns.

"I need to be beaten. It'll improve me as a person and it'll

make me a better servant of God. I'll do anything you want.

I'll do anything you say."

God, and I wanted her too. I was aroused. I wanted to own

her. I wanted to remove that fragile white linen and beat

her. It wouldn't be long, either. I could hear the bustle of

the faithful coming to prayer.

My fingers played with Naomi's ties, fidgeting with the

fabric. "It was a pressure cooker environment in those

convents with unbearable frustration and craving," I puffed,

looking down at my watch. Only a minute or two now. The nuns

were outside. "In such an atmosphere, women behave in ways

that they don't fully anticipate. Maybe, you can understand

that, Naomi, but look closely at the pictures - at the

women's faces. Can you see the secret hidden in these

engravings? Look closely. The nuns want to be punished. Look

carefully at the posture. Look at their faces. They want to

be whipped. Imagine that! Their sins are deliberate and

calculated. They crave the whip because it offers them

release. They're naked: yes; and tied to a frame. They're

humiliated: certainly. The leather strikes between their

legs. It curls deep into their flesh and bites into their

slits - finding and probing inside. They're in pain. They

hurt. But, even so, they lift themselves eagerly to the

leather as if to a lover.

"Here they can scream. They can fight. They can be women.

Here is the one place where a nun can be herself: the only

place. She can behave in whatever way she likes and no one

will censure her. Here, at last, she has the freedom to cum.

This is the way it must be, Naomi. In this way I can love

you, but no more, for I am a priest."

"Yes, Charlie," she wheezed, fidgeting and shaking like a

warthog in heat. She could hear the voices of the women

outside, lining up to enter the Chapel. She could hear the

voices of the bishops. "You're right. You must do it. I

deserve to be punished."

She was squeezing her thighs and twisting her hips, almost

climbing the walls with discomfort. She knew it could

happen, that I would strip her; that I would wait until all

the nuns and bishops had come in, and then I would beat the

heat out of her pussy.

I would bring her pleasure and contentment.

She was clinging to my hand, looking at me with her big wet

eyes, as firmly and resolutely as ever. Her burnt nipples

smoldered under the ferocity of my gaze. I could see her

dark hair beneath her skirt, triangular, and as yet, uncut.

When she was naked and I would shave her ready for her

punishment. I would have that pleasure. Then I would whip

her.

I wrapped my fingers round the delicate bows that held her

skirt to her waist. This garment, like her vest, was a

symbol of shame. A symbol of pain: according to the manner

of St Joan.

"Do it," she urged me. "Undress me. Strip me like the wanton

I am."

I waited until they threw open the door, and that's when I

did it. I pulled the ties on her skirt. And also the tiny

bows where the straps of her vest were fastened on her

shoulder. I caressed them undone.

There was a rustle of linen and an involuntary gasp; first

from her and then from the nuns behind us. The cloth slid

across her breasts and arms, and across her thighs and her

calves.

Naomi appeared shocked, quite surprised that I'd done it;

and her face punctuated in a single unanswered question.

"You're beautiful," I whispered, and with my back to the

advancing bishops, I lifted my cassock and showed her my

cock.

I glanced at her beautifully framed triangle, then up at her

naked breasts, and then up again at the altar.

She smiled, because my cock was rising in her honor. It was

hard, and erect. "Thank you," she said, and she climbed up

onto the altar, and I lowered my robe and made myself modest

again.

Soon Naomi Anne would be tied there on the altar and I would

whip her, and she would cum like she wanted to cum.

She would be happy.

But nothing more.

I couldn't fuck her. Not now. Not ever. I wouldn't.

I loved her too much.

The End

In the Manner of St Joan

by Grim Williams

Copyright 2006