Jill
Crokett’s
Reform School: Memoirs of a Nun
Chapter 1
In 1999 I received a
telephone call from a man who introduced himself as an attorney calling from
San Francisco, in America. The only unusual thing about the call, other than
the fact that I had never heard of him, was the fact that I live in the town of
Dubbo, in Australia, several hours drive west of Sydney.
My father’s side of the
family has lived here in New South Wales for generations, but on my mother’s
side my grandfather was from the Midwestern American state of Indiana,
emigrating to New South Wales as a young man in the 1930s. He had four brothers, none of whom I ever
met, and a sister, who I met just twice, the first time being when she visited
my grandfather during a trip to Australia in 1973. At the time I was sixteen, she would then
have been about sixty.
I remember my great aunt Veronica as an
independent, intelligent woman who seemed to behave in a manner younger than
her years. She owned her own business, a private employment agency in San
Francisco, with another woman partner.
The employment agency had apparently grown to become quite successful,
contracting with the hordes of young Americans swarming westward into the city
in the heady days of the 1960s and 70’s. My grandfather told me that his sister
Veronica had been a nun for many years, eventually leaving the convent in the
late 1950’s. She had never married.
Other than her visit in
1973, the only other time I saw my great-aunt Veronica was at my grandfather’s
funeral ten years later, in 1983. She was the only one of granddad’s American
relatives to attend, and in fact she was still the only one any of us had ever
met. After the funeral Veronica stayed on in Dubbo for over a week, doing tea
with gramp’s relatives and enduring a weekend trip to Sydney with me in my
rusty old 1969 Holden. I distinctly
remember that, for a woman of seventy, she was quite fun to talk to, and she
even invited me, more than once, to visit her in California sometime. I never did.
The substance of the
call from San Francisco in 1999 was surprising to me, given that I had only
spent time with my great aunt on two occasions.
Somehow, despite our limited contact, I must have impressed Veronica on
some level. The man calling from San
Francisco told me that my grandfather’s sister, who had no children, had
included her Australian grand-niece in her will.
Veronica left the
primary asset of her modest estate, her beautiful single-family home in the
city’s Mission district, which she had purchased with her business partner for
next to nothing in 1966, to the niece of her late business partner. What the
87-year-old matron had left me, the lawyer said, was the contents of a single,
small safe deposit box.
My trans-Pacific journey
to retrieve the contents of the box was uneventful, but opening it, as I stood
alone in a small quiet office off the lobby of a swank San Francisco bank, was
unforgetful. Enclosed in the long, short tin box I found seven certificates of
deposit of varying maturity dates, each worth roughly between $20,000 and
$40,000. Under them was a thick,
yellowing envelope containing a stack of old United States Savings Bonds,
together worth about $20,000. Beneath
the yellowing envelope was a carefully folded document , neatly typed on white
stationary with an old ribbon-style typewriter.
I told everyone about the money right away. It has taken me seven years
to find the courage to reveal the content of the neatly typed document I found
at the bottom of the tin box that foggy morning. As reluctant as I am to
release the following document, I feel obligated to do what my great aunt
wanted done following her death.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Veronica Smelts San Francisco, Calif. Nov. 10, 1978
As I reflect back on my 65 years, a little more than 25 of
which I spent as a nun in the Order of the Sisters of St. Michael of the
Angels, I look back from the perspective of the social changes brought by those
years, changes that shaped both my personal life and society in general, and I
feel it is important to record the history of my formative experiences as a
young nun in the 1930s, as well my experiences as an established sister of my
order in the 1940s and 50’s.
This, my personal testimony of those times, is given in
light of the changes in social and religious thought that has evolved since
that rather dark era. While I feel it is important for me to tell my story, it
is a story which I am only comfortable telling after I am gone. It is all very
true.
In the summer of 1934 I knelt humbly yet proudly on the cool marble floor in the chapel of our order’s motherhouse in Chicago and professed to the Auxiliary Bishop of the Archdiocese vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience to my Superiors, dedicating my life to the Order of the Sisters of St. Michael of the Angels.
For two years I had prepared for that special day by serving as a novice there at the order’s reform school and main convent, or motherhouse, in Chicago. On taking my permanent vows as a nun that day, I also took a new name. My heart swelled with pride as the bishop laid his hands on my head and proclaimed me “Sister Vincent” before my parents, brothers, and fellow nuns.
My mother and father, who had traveled from our farm in rural Indiana to be there that day, looked on as their only daughter, bathed in the multicolored light of the chapel’s stained-glass windows, dedicated her life to the service of those youth who were most urgently in need of God’s guidance and unending love. Their daughter had become a nun.
My father, though he never told me so directly, was disappointed with my choice. My mother on the other hand, a devout, strong-willed woman who had successfully raised five God-fearing sons, was proud of my decision. She felt, as I did, that my chosen vocation would allow me to help make the world a better place. As I look back on that day I regret that I never told her that she had been my inspiration. Growing up I had watched her persuasive, caring hands guide my brothers through the difficult challenges of youth at a time when other boys, less guided, would have fallen astray.
My chosen religious order, the Sisters of St. Michael of the Angels, was founded in the shadows of the youth-filled sweatshops of the late 19th century. It was a time when parents, often with no understanding or control over human reproduction, were blessed with many mouths to feed. Overpopulated orphanages frequently ejected incorrigible boys as young as 12 or 13, forcing them to fend for themselves on the streets of large cities. Government social programs for delinquent teens did not exist at that time.
If caught stealing, courts of the day offered these youth only adult justice for their crimes. To combat this inequity, many young males found security in criminal association, and gangs of incorrigible teenage boys roamed the streets vandalizing, stealing, intimidating, and extorting, often with impunity.
The dedicated sisters of St. Michael’s established their first reform school in a donated building in Chicago in 1888. Boys from 13 to 16 years old, who were found to be unmanageable by either their parents or their orphanage, were chronic runaways, or had been arrested for an adult crime and sent by the court, were taken in by the sisters. The novel new religious order grew rapidly on a philosophy of behavioral reform for incorrigible boys through the application of strict corporal discipline. It should be noted that the mission of the founding sisters was not just to keep troubled boys out of adult prisons, but to reform their character as well, returning them to society as law abiding, productive Christians. Needless to say, it was a most challenging mission.
As new reformatories opened in other cities, additional sisters, mostly women from strict, religious, Midwestern farm families, volunteered to join the order. These new nuns were trained in the judicious administration of strict discipline, and by the early 1930s, reform schools were being operated by the Order in nine large American cities. Social service programs for misguided youth were rare at the time, and the sisters often received direct referrals from the courts, gaining the praise of judges and civic leaders, both Protestant and Catholic alike, who believed that our order of nuns offered the best hope for reforming criminalized youth.
My parents were
happy that my first assignment was to the sisters’ reformatory in Indianapolis.
There they could visit me on the occasionally weekend, driving in from the family
farm near Jeffersonville. In Indianapolis I would undergo training which would
prepare me to become an Assistant Director of Discipline at one of the order’s
other reformatories. Sister Joseph, the Director of Discipline in Indianapolis,
would be my Superior, schooling me in both the application of disciplinary
procedures and the administration of a disciplinary office.
I was told by
the Mother Superior in Chicago that, after two or three years of training under
Sister Joseph and her Assistant, Sister Anne, in Indianapolis, she was
confidant I would be able to take on my own assignment as an Assistant Director
of Discipline at one of the Order’s other reformatories. As I left her office, a
confidant 21-year-old excited about the adventure of my first assignment,
Mother Superior presented me with a light hearted departing gift; a narrow
hardwood paddle with the seal of our religious order on it.
Sister Joseph was
a stout 57-year-old, rather serious woman of Irish parentage who had thick arms
and always spoke with an air of authority, regardless of whether she were
addressing a teenage boy, a parent, or a fellow sister. Under her habit she wore
her stiff, graying hair in a tight bun rather than cutting it short as most of
the other sisters did. A thick, compact woman, of about five foot three, Sister
Joseph wore the same dark-gray, floor length habit that all the sisters wore,
but hers, due to her thickness, seemed more fitted, causing her large bosoms to
visibly jiggle when she stroked away at a boy’s bottom.
Sister Joe, as
we called her behind her back, had a very direct, matter of fact manner about
her, and her personality seemed to exuded a silent dominance over a room
whenever she entered. She was a natural disciplinarian. She had entered the
convent as a girl of eighteen in the early, developing years of the order, just
before the turn of the century, rising over the years to a position of
authority. She sincerely seemed to
relish that authority. I later learned
that three years earlier Sister Joseph had turned down an appointment to the
honored position of Mother Superior of the order’s Cleveland convent in order
to keep her position as Director of Discipline in Indianapolis.
At times I felt
that, even for a nun in charge of discipline, Sister Joseph could be quite
strict. She firmly believed that sparing the rod would spoil the child, a verse
which she often quoted to a boy as she took down his trousers. She totally savored in breaking a boy’s will,
often waiting until he broke down and cried, pleading “please, please stop, I
can’t take any more sister!” before applying her firmest, fastest strokes. She definitely loved hearing a bad boy cry,
and if they were sent to her office, they did.
Sister Joseph
took special zeal in punishing a boy in front of several other females, such as
a small gathering of fellow nuns, or, such as on the infrequent occasion when a
boy might be remanded to the reformatory by possibly not only his mother, but
an accompanying aunt, grandmother, or other matronly family member.
“Mature women,”
she once said in her slight Irish brogue, “are more inclined to appreciate the
fine maternal art of discipline and control.”
She once told me a story about a reformatory boy she’d caught masturbating
with a stolen dirty magazine in a linen storage room. She proudly boasted that she waited until
visiting day, and then, in her office, severely paddled the boy in front of his
visiting mother, aunt, grandmother, and older teenage sister.
“Making that
boy drop his trousers in front four females gave him a temporary lesson in
humility, but making him squeal in front of them as I reddened his bottom
helped keep him in line for years” she said, adding with a rare smile “Sister
Vincent, I may have well saved him from prison.”
------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming soon in Chapter Two of Jill Crokett’s Reform School: Memoir of a Nun
things heat up as disciplinarian-in-training Sr. Vincent sits
in on several of Sr. Joseph’s severe punishments, witnesses a circumcision
without anesthesia, and is coerced by Sr. Joseph to undergo the required annual
medical examination by the school’s visiting doctor. In the meantime please enjoy
one of Ms. Crokett’s other popular stories on this site, including:
Execution of the Terrorist Housewives one of
the Top 25 Overall Most Popular stories on this site
Diary of a Nazi Rape
Squad hugely popular new story with regular updates posted
Or, read another story
about female domination of young males in Jill Crokett’s Sex Secrets Men Never Hear
For the complete selection
of Jill Crokett’s stories simply click the back button on your browser, then double
click on the author’s name next to this story’s title
You can write Ms.
Crokett at jcrokett@yahoo.com
Reform School: Memoirs of a Nun
by Jill Crokett
Chapter Two
Author's Notes:
1) "Chapter One"
of this story was originally erroneously posted by the
webmaster as "Chapter Two." I have requested that this error by
corrected. This
is the real Chapter Two. Please attempt to read my first posting, the
true
"Chapter
One", first.
2) This story is a factually
accurate historical narrative, but all names used
are fictitious, including the author's nom de
plume. While no humans were hurt
or abused in the writing of this sadly often too true
historical narrative, the author wishes
to make it clear that she does not condone the
institutionally-sponsored
activities recanted here, but only truthfully acknowledge that
they existed.
3)
Please send your comments to jcrokett@yahoo.com Love to all, Jill
It was just my second day at
our order's reform school in
After morning prayers I
enjoyed breakfast in the sisters' private dining room. We always ate in shifts, as some of us were
always attending to the boys, but I dined congenially that morning with several
other dark-gray-robed nuns, and was able to acquaint myself with several of the
other sisters.
When we finished, Sister
Joseph discreetly pulled me aside and informed me that I was to witness a
'house induction' that morning. It would
represent the beginning of my disciplinary training, and would serve as an orientation
to my new job.
Sr. Joe said that "the
courthouse" had called earlier her early that morning to refer a "condemned
juvenile" and his mother to us. She said she had "spoken with the
Judge himself" on the telephone regarding the seriousness of the case.
Apparently some sort of serious robbery was involved.
The judge was "a very
strict, Godly judge" Sister Joseph remarked, as if she was familiar with
them all, adding "The court will be sending the boy directly to St.
Michael's this morning, and I want you to witness his induction process."
Her words, nearly whispered, gave me instant butterflies.
We were informed that an
11-year-old boy, accompanied by with his mother, would arrive shortly, escorted
directly from the judge's chambers by the police. "We'll accommodate him immediately"
Sr. Joseph quietly pronounced with her usual air of confidence and authority, adding
"and I want you in my office so you can observe a proper induction into
this facility."
"Observe, and
learn" she said as she turned to hustle herself up the wide staircase to
her third floor office.
"Yes, Sister" I
affirmed as the 57-year-old nun quickly floated up the staircase. I was amazed at how swiftly Sister Joseph
escalated the three flights without hesitation.
I hurriedly followed as I lifted the hem of my long, gray habit as I
clumsily negotiated the stairs behind her.
Upon entering Sr. Joe's
office I couldn't help but notice Sister Anne tightly drawing down the window
shades. She had already closed the
windows, even though it was mid-summer. An overhead light fixture glared at down on
what I thought was a previously empty spot in the center of her office, in
front of Sr. Joe's desk. I had previously only been in the office once, the day
before, but I noticed for the first time, directly under the light's
illumination, what looked like a small, low, narrow table covered with a white
sheet.
My heart raced slightly as
Sister Joe's third-floor office telephone rang, notifying us that the new
reformatory student and his mother were on their way. As she hung up the telephone Sister Joseph
reminded me to observe Sister Anne as she worked, as I was training for her
position. She explained that after the boy's induction, his mother would be
given a small cash welfare stipend, and she would be sent home in a taxi paid for
by the school. The boy would be left
with us for at least several months, or "possibly several years if he resists
reform." "Hopefully", she
added, "by the grace of God, I can save his young soul from a life of
crime and prison."
I accompanied Sister Anne
back downstairs to greet the new student and his mother at the reformatory's
front entrance. Within minutes Mrs. Larsen and her 11-year-old son Brian
arrived in a shiny black-and-white police cruiser. As the officer drove off, Sr. Anne introduced
herself in a cool but professional manner.
"Welcome to St. Michael
of the Angels Boys Reformatory. I am Sister Anne, the Assistant Director of Discipline."
She then turned to Brian and, with an intimidating smile, added "I believe
I'm due to become very well acquainted with this young man."
Brian Larsen was a typical
tossed-haired, slightly freckled boy of medium build. His struggling mom had
made him as presentable as she could for court, neatly dressing her son in a
pressed, clean white short-sleeve shirt and gray trousers. His brown hair was
neatly combed with a few drops hair tonic, but his clean cut appearance betrayed
his history of
juvenile disobedience, truancy, and theft.
Mrs. Larsen had gone to
court that morning in a simple print dress, the nicest one she owned. The
defeated look on her face betrayed a life that had seen much heartache in it's 33 years. Her alcoholic husband had abandoned her
several months earlier, saying he was going west to look for work in
raise her three children in a small two-room flat on the
depression-era salary of a part-time sandwich counter waitress.
Mrs. Larsen knew that St.
Michael's would pay her a small welfare stipend for each month that her son was
incarcerated there. This act of charity,
though small, would be enough to buy groceries for her two daughters', and in
those days of the Great Depression, every extra crumb helped, not to mention
that, with Brian away, there would be one less mouth to feed at home. She
certainly favored the idea of sending the troublesome boy away.
Sister Anne escorted Mrs.
Larsen and Brian up the wide staircase to the Department of Discipline office
as I followed behind them. She led them
straight through the reception area and directly into Sister Joseph's large office.
Once we were inside she shut the office door and quietly set the deadbolt so
that we could not be interrupted. As she
did, Sr. Joseph picked up her telephone receiver and instructed the switchboard
operator to hold her calls.
I remember swallowing hard an the anxious feeling at being an observer in a room now
occupied by four adult women and one lone 11-year-old boy. At that point in my young life as a nun I
knew nothing about being a disciplinarian, but I knew even less about boys.
Sister Joseph politely
introduced herself to the boy's mother, informing her that she was the Director
of Discipline and the institution's second-in-command. Mrs. Larsen said nothing
but forced a tense smile. Turning to Brian, Sister Joseph quipped "So,
you've been to court today, haven't you young man?"
Brian only nodded a sad
"yes."
"You're a bit young to
be heading down that path, aren't you my son?" Sister Joseph snapped in
her slight Irish brogue, a sudden look of anger displayed on her face.
The boy did not reply to the
57-year-old nun, but only stared timidly at the floor.
"Answer her!"
snapped his mother.
Brian managed a timid
"Yes, ma'am, uh, I mean Sister."
Looking back up at Mrs.
Larsen, Sister Joseph quipped a faint smile and said
in benign resignation "Well, the younger they are ma'am, the better chance
I have at saving them, in both in this world and the next."
Stepping aside, Sister
Joseph, pointing to a spot on the floor, instructed the boy to stand in the
center of the room, right in front of the narrow table covered with the white
sheet. Brian complied, saying
nothing. Sister Joseph and Sister Anne
quietly moved to stand to either side of him.
I nervously remained on the sidelines, my sweaty palms lightly bracing a
bookshelf behind me.
"Young man” Sister
Joseph commanded, “turn and face your mother".
As the boy turned his back
to the covered table, Sister Anne, without prompting, reached behind him and,
without his awareness, slowly lifted the white sheet up off the table,
revealing the covered object for the first time. I soon learned that the nuns referred to it as
simply 'the halter'.
A paddling bench had been my
guess, but ‘the halter’ was not quite what I had expected. Removing the sheet revealed a short, narrow,
brown leather bench, less than three feet high and little more than a foot
wide. It was no more than two feet
long. The lightly padded, leather
covered top was supported by four thick, sturdy, square oak legs, each of which
had several leather restraint straps attached at various heights of the leg. At one end of the bench, bolted to two of the
legs, was a wide, leather padded kneeler.
This wide kneeler had knee restraints at the front of it, and ankle
restraints at each back corner. The pair
of long leather belts dangling from each side of the bench were
used to restrain the boys’ waist and chest.
Glancing at the mother, I
could clearly see her bosoms raise and lower with rhythmic breathing as the
paddling bench was revealed to her view, but not her son’s. It was directly
behind him as he stood facing her, and she had to tilt her head slightly to get
a glimpse of it. Her eyes widened with a
look of curiosity as she gazed around her son at the halter. The moment the sheet was pulled away the
woman’s face blushed and she grinned slightly with a look of satisfaction.
Sister Joseph, looking
directly at the mother asked "Do you agree ma'am, to comply with the order
of the court, and to place your son under our administration and
guidance."
"Yes indeed, yes Sister,
I do" the mother meekly replied, glancing at her son.
"Well then, it's in our
hands now, not only to carry out the order of the court, but to help guide
young Brian here so one day he will walk the straight and true path. After he has spent his time here with us,
Mrs. Larsen, it will be in your hands and the Lord's."
Without looking at Brian the
senior nun then matter-of-factly ordered "Young man, raise your hands
above your head and apologize to your mother."
As the boy hesitatingly complied,
slowly surrendering to his mom as he and mumbled something, Sister Anne knelt
down in front of him and, crouching low, began untying
his shoes. His mother smiled with
nervous curiosity at both the boy’s submission and Sister Anne’s activity. While Sister Anne quickly slipped his shoes
off, Sister Joseph interjected "We're going to get you a uniform Brian, so
you'll look just like all the other boys."
Sister Anne then lifted the boy's feet and, one at a time, slipped off
his heel-worn socks.
Once Brian was barefoot,
Sister Anne, still kneeling, straightened up a bit and made brief eye contact
with Sister Joseph, but said nothing. Sister
Joe nodded an esoteric command as if granting her permission to proceed, then continued to lecture young Brian as he stood with his arms
overhead.
"Young man, your
behavior has led you in a serious criminal direction. You have been a shame on your family, and
have thoroughly humiliated your loving mother."
At almost the very moment
Sister Joseph said the word "humiliated," kneeling Sister Anne
slipped her fingers under the waistband of the frightened 11-year-old's
pants. His 32-year-old mother smirked
with satisfaction as she watched the young nun unbuttoned her son's
trousers. Brian, shocked and embarrassed
at the thought of being undressed in front of four grown women, glanced down
and instinctively grabbed one of the nun's wrists. Sister Anne quickly lifted the opened palm of
her hand free and slapped his face, ordering the boy to raise his arms back
high "and keep them there."
Humiliated and ashamed,
Brian’s eyes teared up as kneeling Sister Anne coldly
unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. A
single tear rolled down the boy’s cheek.
"Oh yes, they'll be a
more than a few tears in this room this morning, young man" Sister Joseph
coldly exclaimed as she turned and picked up a short, fifteen-inch-long
wooden-handled leather punishment strap off of her desk, casually brandishing
it so that Brian would see it for the first time. Major tears welled in the terrified boy’s
eyes and dribbled down both of his now rosy, blushing cheeks. His chest heaved with angst as his
throat hummed a slight gurgled. To compound his shame, at the very moment
Brian caught sight of the cruelly modified barber's strop, Sister Anne pulled
his trousers down to his bare ankles as his mom watched. His arms held high, the boy's face crumple,
his lower lip quivering.
As Mrs. Larsen stared,
Sister Anne slipped her son's trousers completely off, one leg at a time. I, a newly vowed young nun, also felt my own cheeks
reddening with embarrassment at the sight.
Chaste and modest, I was most ashamed of the pleasure I felt at
witnessing another’s certain humiliation.
Breaking the embarrassing
silence, Sister Joseph resumed her lecture.
"Normally we start our
new boys out with a dose of the paddle Mrs. Larsen, but for your son, the judge
has specifically called for the barber's strop.”
Turning to Brian she
brandished the worn leather strap to adding “So don't be ashamed to cry young
man, Lord knows we've seen plenty of tears here before, and I know we're going
to see some this morning. The Sisters
and I know what's best for you, young man."
Sister Joseph laid the
frightening-looking leather implement back on her desk, then turned and walked
straight up to the surrendering boy and began unbuttoning his shirt, starting
at the collar and working down. As the senior
nun’s arthritic fingers meticulously worked the button holes, her kneeling protégé
slipped her young nibble fingers under the waistband of Brian's underwear and lightly
tugged the snug white briefs down to his ankles, baring a young male’s smooth,
hairless masculinity to me for the first time in my life.
As Sister Anne bent down and
slipped the cotton briefs off Brian’s bare feet, Sister Joseph pulled his
simple linen shirt straight up over his up stretched arms. Seeing his total white-skinned nakedness I
blushed beet red with embarrassment, unable to look away as I curiously stared at
a likeness of God's creation which I’d never before seen; the crisp ring of his
circumcised penis, the almost slick dark head of his young dick with its tiny inverted
eye-like pee-hole, and the boy’s smooth, twin-scooped, hairless bird-egg-like
ball sack.
Beyond my fascination with
this new, yet unseen flesh, I actually felt the boy’s embarrassment, his shame
at being naked, his humiliation at having his sex exposed chaste nuns. It was palpable. It was powerful. I stared at this young male in both embarrassment
at his nakedness and amazement at his unique maleness. I had joined the convent as a teen, and,
having never even kissed a boy, I had never seen such a display of a totally
naked male. I wanted to explore his
creamy white skin, which was smooth and hairless from the neck down, with
slight tan lines at his arms and legs.
That moment was an epiphany
of what my new life in
"Brian, today the court
has sentenced you to not less than four months here at the Reformatory of St.
Michael of the Angels. You know very
well why you are here. It is because you've been involved in a serious crime, a
burglary."
"The other participants
in that crime, two slightly older boys, are being sent this morning to the
state prison, a horrendous place I might add, for years. Because of your tender
age, Brian, you have been spared. But the judge is very, very concerned about
your involvement in such a serious crime at such a young age. He wants to make
a clear impression on you, one you will never forget, and today we are going to
do just that."
"The judge has
instructed me to begin your time here with the application of 35 strokes of a
specially shortened and narrowed barber's strop, applied to the bare skin of
your backside from the waist to the knees.
He has authorized me to add strokes if you are uncooperative."
With those words Brian, his
arms still in submission, began to shake with a hushed sob as the expression on
his face crumpled and twisted. As another
tear rolled down his cheek Brian began to say "I'm sorry, ma'am" but
Sister Joseph quickly cut him off, adding "My years of experience have
shown me that boys your age usually try to cover their bottoms after the first
stroke, especially when using the barber's strop, and since we don't wish to
injure your fingers, before we proceed, Sister Anne and I are going to firmly buckle
you to a little bench, a 'halter' we call it, so your hands can't cover your
bottom during the
punishment. If you
resist Brian, or struggle in anyway as we buckle you in the halter, I will add
ten strokes to your sentence. If you
persist, I will add twenty. Do you
understand young man?" Brian only
nodded, now quivering.
Taking Brian by the
shoulders, the sisters physically turned the naked boy to face the bench. As soon as he caught sight of the low bench
his chin began to quiver, but his pride kept him from crying aloud. The nuns made the stripped boy kneel on knee
pads affixed to one end of the bench, then bent his
chest completely over the length of the short leather covered contraption. Sister Anne and Sister Joseph, bending over
the boy at each side of the bench, began firmly buckling Brian into place as he
knelt chest-down.
The boy's bare butt stuck
upward, slightly higher than his back and shoulders. His knees were buckled down first, to the
kneeler, bent at a 90° angle and slightly apart, gently opening his butt crack
and slightly exposing his asshole and smooth balls to both this female witness
and the strap. His ankles were strapped
down fairly wide apart at the other end of the wide padded kneeler board. Brian's thighs were buckled to the upper bench
legs, pulling his upturned cheeks open and further exposing the most tender of his private parts to the reach of the old
leather strop.
Sister Anne placed a long wide
black belt over Brian’s bare back and buckled it across his shoulder
blades. Sister Joe did the same at his
waist. The nuns then strapped his arms
to the front legs of the bench, securing them at multiple points. The boy now could not move anything except
his hands, feet, and head. He arched his
head up to look behind him just in time to see Sister Joseph pick up the strop
and approach his bare bottom.
“Brian, you will count each
stroke, then you will thank me, and then, with each
one, apologize to your mother.”
As the 57-year-old nun rolled
up the long gray sleeves of her habit she added “And if you miss just once, we
start all over from the beginning.”
Chapter3
Sister Joseph’s first sharp, loud crack of the barber’s strap crisply broke the quiet stillness of the shade-drawn room, immediately eliciting a boy’s ear-piercing wail. Just seconds later, his butt cheeks still drawn tight in spasm, the cruel leather strop snapped again. From my angle I could see his upward tilted bottom striped with two diagonal red marks, each one crossing both cheeks. Before she implied the third stroke Sister Joseph waited until the boy’s wailing transitioned into crying. Then, as the boy taught his breath and sobbed aloud, Sister Joseph laid a third hard, fierce stroke across Brian's white butt cheeks as his mother and I watched. After the third stroke, to my total shock and embarrassment, Brian released his bladder as a stream of yellow urine splattered the floor between his legs.
I flushed red with embarrassment, never having seen a boy pee before, but Sister Joseph and Sister Anne appeared unfazed at the event. Sister Joseph waited until the last drip of urine fell before continuing, giving Brian a chance to catch his breath.
"Don't you have something to say, young man?" Sister Joseph commanded. Through his crying Brian finally struggled to say "Three. Thank you Sister. I'm sorry mom."
"No young man, there's no catch up here. We begin again at one. And this time, count each one” The nun replied with unbelievable cruelty.
"No, no, no please ma'am, please momma, no" Brian pleaded as the mature nun applied fourth stroke. With the stroke trickle of urine splattered about. After this fourth stroke Brian gave up the words "four, thang, ah, aaahh” but the remainder of his words quivered, then crumble unintelligibly under the harshness of the elderly nun’s determined stroke, which left a fourth wide red stripe across his sculpted white buttocks.
With the fifth harsh stroke of the strap the boy once again could not find the words to thank the nun, only crying “No please ma’am no, no.”
"Snap” cracked the sixth stroke of the strap, but instead of a count, young Brian reflexively jolted against his restrains, inhaled deeply, then began to howl like a girl who had been just stung by a dozen wasps, giving out a high pitch scream and shaking violently against his restraints. I remember being embarrassed at the thought that everyone in the building could hear his hopelessly desperate pleas.
Finally, after the seventh stroke, Brian struggled to find the words “thank you” through his tears, which were now running down his cheeks. It seems so absurd to me to hear the child thank Sister Joseph for her cruel administration of justice. After the eighth stroke Brian once again attempted to thank her, but this time only managed a panicky, terror filled scream of “no ma’am, please, no ma’am.”
At this point Sister Joseph laid the strap down on her desk and walked to the front of the bench, facing the naked boy, who was strapped chest-down to the bench and staring at the floor. She grabbed Brian's his head by the hair and jerked it up and back as tears streamed down his cheeks. Looking Brian in the eye as she bent forward, the nun said "Don't you have something to say to me young man?"
Somehow the crying, naked boy found the difficult words required of him. "Thank you, Sister" he choked through his streaming tears.
Sister Joseph released his hair and looked up at his mother, who was now also crying. Seeing how shaken Mrs. Larsen was, she announced “We’ll take a break.”
Sister Joe walked back toward her desk and picked up the phone. Speaking over the boy’s sobbing she told one of the nuns downstairs to call a cab for Mrs. Larsen. Sister Anne immediately unlocked the inner office door and quickly escorted Brian's mom downstairs. There was no good bye to Brian, but as she left Sister Joseph did say to her "We will notify you when visitation day is, and you can bring his sisters to visit then too." Crying Brian was left strapped down as Sister Joseph reassured the shaken Mrs. Larsen that her son would be returned a new man.
In about 10 minutes Sister Anne returned from downstairs and re-locked the door. Brian was still crying softly when Sister Joseph returned to the desk and opened it, this time producing a different, narrower, wooden-handled leather strap.
Turning his head to see her approach with the new strap the boy pleaded "No, no more Sister, no please, please no!"
Patting the strap against the palm of her hand, Sister Joseph took a moment to walk around and address the boy face-to-face. Grabbing his hair once again and lifting his head the nun said "No more? Why young man, those eight strokes were just a warm up. After another 20 or so, well, then you'll know what the strap is all about here at Saint Michael’s.”
As Sister Joseph spoke, Sister Anne fastened two more leather restraint harnesses to each of Brian’s upper thighs, near his crotch, buckling them tight apart to each of the bench’s rear legs so as to effectively spread the boy’s crotch open even wider, further exposing his young, hanging maleness. Finished strapping him open, Sister Anne reached for a wide-capped jar of white ointment from inside Sister Joseph’s desk and, opening it, to my shock and embarrassment bent down and began spreading the medicament over the boy’s balls and across his peritoneum with her fingertips. Using both hands she reached up between his crotch and lightly stroked the shaft of his penis, briefly appointing the head.
Seeing the shock on my face, Sister Joseph turned to me and said "now that the mother is gone, we must do our real work, and this is the only way to take the evil from him. God willing, with the ointment there will be no lasting marks."
Before Brian could scream another exclamatory "No!," Sister Joseph laid the ninth strap stroke between the boy’s bottom with a harsh, pronounced upward stroke. From now on the older nun disregarded prior demand for a count or reply, but repeatedly strapped Brian between the legs with determined strokes. With each stroke, from my vantage point I could see Brian's balls and penis dance, not just from the stroke of the strap, but with his desperate attempt to free himself from the restraints. His struggle was in vain.
Having strapped his boy sex thoroughly as he wailed and screeched, Sister Joseph moved in search of any remaining white, untouched skin, first working his thighs, then determinedly moving back to his now swollen young ball-sack. The boy had lost his voice after the first few strokes as he gasped for breath.
After 15 minutes young Brian was marked with red stripes from his waist to his knees, the fiercest strokes having been laid across his sex. By the time the punishment was over I was shaking. The strapping over, Sister Anne returned with the jar of ointment and began to carefully apply it to the boy's bottom liberally, carefully covering his strapped scrotum and penis with the cream.
I thought I would faint at what I had witnessed that day, and I must admit that my labia were thoroughly lubricated beneath my gray nuns’ habit. To that point in my young life it had been the most sexual ritual I had ever witnessed or been party to. From the moment he was unstrapped and stood up before us I could tell that the naked boy’s will had been broken. He obeyed and Sister Anne’s command to stand with his arms overhead as the two nuns leaned over to inspected his whip marks. As he stood there crying, his buttocks cheeks covered with red strap marks, his balls swollen, my crotch dripped as I watched Sister Anne reach for the jar once again and gently anoint his genitals with the cream.
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