The Mortification of the Flesh

  • Posted on November 3, 2022 at 3:05 pm

“Here, in this room, we stand naked before Almighty God.”

by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Original illustration by Bruno Traven

If you asked Sister Lucretia, she’d say it was my own doing. It was my wickedness that brought God’s wrath down on my ass. She was only His instrument, His avenging angel. I deserved every painful smack she inflicted on my bare behind.

I tried to be a good girl. I only touched myself once. It happened in the morning, when I woke up with a hand down my pajamas. I was warm and slick down there, and it felt so good I couldn’t make myself stop. But as soon as the pleasure had peaked, I knew I’d done something wrong. I wasn’t sure just what, and I was too embarrassed to bring it up in confession, but it had to do with sex, so it must be bad. I promised myself I’d never do it again.

I kept thinking about it, though, and that was a sin, too. Jesus said if you even look at somebody with lust, you’ve committed adultery in your heart, though nobody ever bothered to explain to us what adultery was. Sister said it was possible to sin in thought and word as well as deed. Well, I’d sinned in deed, and I was probably sinning in thought, but at least I kept my mouth shut. When the boys in the schoolyard told dirty jokes or ragged each other about “jerking off,” or the girls gossiped about some other girl they called a slut, I did what Sister told us to do when someone “makes the Blessed Mother weep in their speech.” I walked away.

Then, in spite of everything, I sinned in deed again. It was the first really nice spring day we’d had since Easter, and the change in the air gave me the fidgets. My panties felt damp and tight. After lunch, when I went into the girls’ room to pee, I took them all the way off — pulling them over my clunky saddle shoes — and stuffed them in the pocket of my uniform. It wasn’t a sin, I told myself, if nobody saw you. It was my body, after all. I was keeping it hidden, and anyway, Jesus never said you had to wear panties.

Outside in the schoolyard, the breeze blew up my skirt and gave me goose pimples on my butt and my thighs. I liked the way it felt, and even more, I liked having a secret none of the other kids knew about.

Once we got back inside, it was hard to concentrate. I kept thinking about my secret, and how it might be fun to, like, lift my skirt up in front of a car on the walk home. Okay, that would be a sin. I spent all afternoon trying not to think about things like that. It felt warm between my legs, the way it had in bed that morning a week before, and I spread my knees a little to let the air in to cool off. I was lucky Sister Lucretia never called on me, because I wouldn’t have known the answer. I probably wouldn’t even have heard her. I hardly knew where I was.

The three o’clock buzzer finally went off. I actually sighed with relief, snapping my legs shut and sitting up straighter. I thought, on the way home, I’ll sneak behind some bushes and put my panties back on, and that’ll be that, but just before the kid came on the intercom to announce the dismissal lines, Sister Lucretia looked at me over her desk — I was sitting right in front of her — and said, “Miss Beaver, would you stay after class for a moment? I’d like to speak with you.”

“Yes, Sister,” I said. It’s what you always said when a nun asked you anything. I couldn’t guess what she wanted, but I never suspected it had anything to do with my being out of uniform. She didn’t sound mad, though with nuns, you could never tell.

I sat with my hands folded on the edge of my desk while the kid called out the buses and street lines over the PA.

“Allen Street,” he said, and some of the other kids in my class lined up and went out.

“Benchley,” he said, and another group left.

“Parker” — that was my line, and I missed it.

Sister never moved from her desk. She never looked at me. It was almost a half hour before we were alone, and she ignored me for another five minutes or more while she marked her grade book. It’s not a good sign when they keep you waiting.

Finally she said, without looking up, “Miss Beaver, come over here, please.”

Suddenly my legs felt weak. I got up and went around behind her desk. She turned in her seat and faced me with her whole body. Her habit was white linen, with brown panels down the front and back, draped over her shoulders, and tied at the waist with a white rope. The tips of her black shoes peeped at me from under the long skirt. She had on a brown veil, and her white wimple was wrapped tight around her face like a bandage. A crucifix sat on her bosom. It was dark wood, with a silver Jesus on it, and it hung from her neck on a brown string. She had taken a vow of poverty, she told us once. A chain would be a vanity.

“Lift your skirt up,” she said.

I just stood there.

“Do you not understand English? Take hold of your skirt and lift it up.”

I pulled the pleats an inch above my knees.

All the way up.”

“What for, Sister?”

“Because I’m telling you to.”

She knew, and there was nothing I could do. She would have sat there and stared me down all night. I pulled my skirt higher, slowly, steadily, and her eyes trailed up my legs until I felt them on my brown puff of hair. Then I dropped the skirt, fast.

“I thought so,” Sister said. “Do you think I’m blind? That I can’t see you when you sit there with your legs wide open? I’ve seen a lot of whorish things from the girls in my class, but you, miss, take the cake. Where is your undergarment?”

“Im muh puh,” I mumbled.

“Where?”

“In my pocket,” I said.

“In my pocket, what?”

“In my pocket, Sister.”

“Let me see it.”

I took it out and held it low at my side, balled up in my fist. Sister yanked it out of my hand.

“I’ll keep this, since you have no interest in it,” she said. “And if you cannot dress decently, you might as well not dress at all. Take off every stitch of your clothing.”

The message went over my head. A nun would never say anything like that, so, obviously, Sister Lucretia could not possibly have said what I just heard. I stood there some more, looking stupid.

“Miss Beaver, we can do this one of two ways,” Sister said. “Either I can call your parents and tell them what a wicked daughter they’ve raised, or you can accept your punishment now, and we can keep this between us. The choice is yours. Which do you prefer?”

“Please don’t call my parents, Sister.”

“Then strip, girl.”

So I took my clothes off. Or tried to. My fingers went numb as I fumbled with the zipper on the back of my jumper. I couldn’t get a grip on the pull-tab, and Sister was in no mood to wait. She sighed angrily, grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. I heard the zipper go down and felt the jumper come apart. Something ripped.

Sister yanked the jumper to my feet, and I stepped out of it.

“Turn around,” she said. “Do you think you can do the rest, or are you such a baby that you need an adult to undress you?”

She kept her eyes on my chest while I unbuttoned my blouse, unhooked my bra, and let them both fall to the floor. I began to toe off my shoes, but she said, “Unlace them.” I got down on one knee, then the other, but when I tried to get up from the crouch, I lost my balance and fell on my ass. My legs were spread wide, and I saw Sister’s gaze shift to my gaping crotch. I pulled my shoes off sitting down, and my knee socks, too. When I stood up again, I had nothing on but the miraculous medal around my neck.

“Now pick up your things and fold them neatly on my desk,” Sister said.

This was even more demeaning than getting naked in the first place. It was Sister Lucretia who made me take everything off, and now she was blaming me for making a mess. But at least it gave me something to think about besides my exposure, and I could hide behind my jumper and my blouse while I folded each one lengthwise, clasping it under my chin, then into thirds. I laid the jumper on the corner of the desk, square with the edges, placed the blouse and bra on top, and tucked my socks into my shoes.

Now, with nothing more to focus on, I felt totally nude again. I tried covering up — one hand over my skimpy bush, the other in front of my titties — but Sister slapped my arms away.

“Stand up straight,” she said.

I squared my shoulders, lifting my breasts. Not that there was much to lift.

“Not quite ripe, are you?” she said. “But you are nice and slim.”

“Thank you, Sister,” was all I could think to say.

“That was not a compliment. A body like yours is an occasion for sin. The boys are already looking at you with lust in their hearts. Some of the girls, too, I imagine. They’re marching into hell with you at the head of the line. Do you understand the kind of perversion a girl like you is responsible for?”

“Yes’ster.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “But you’re about to learn. Are you ready to accept your punishment?”

“Yes’ster.”

“Enunciate!”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Fine. Do you know the door at the end of the hall on the third floor? The one we keep locked?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Wait here for ten minutes, then go up there and knock. I shall be waiting for you.”

“Yes, Sister. May I put my clothes back on?”

“Of course you may,” she said. “All you have to do is come upstairs and get them. It’s that simple. Oh, don’t cry. Crying won’t help you now.”

“Sister, please,” I said. “I won’t do it again.”

“You certainly won’t,” she said, standing up. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

And she walked out of the room, taking my clothes with her.

She didn’t even bother to close the door. When I was sure she was gone, I went over, leaned out and pulled at the knob. But the door wouldn’t budge: it was held open by a latch on the floor. To unhook it, I’d have to step out into the corridor totally bare-assed. I was working up my courage to do just that when I heard some keys jingle. I dashed to the back of the room and ducked behind a desk. Somebody walked by outside. I peeked over the back of the seat, and from there, I watched the clock. The minute hand crawled around, and the more it crawled, the more frightened I got. I hugged myself to keep from shivering. Ten minutes dragged by — plenty of time to think about the long, naked walk ahead of me — and when it was up, I had to hurry upstairs no matter who saw me. If I was late, even by a minute, Sister would not be pleased.

I came back down the aisle and stuck my head out of the doorway.

The corridor was empty, thank God. At one end were the glass doors of the main entrance to the school. The sunlight was bright outside. The north stairs were down that way, to the right, but to get to them, I’d have to pass the main office, and the principal or the secretary might still be working, and they’d see me. At the other end of the corridor was a plaster statue of Saint Theresa, wearing the same habit our nuns did, standing on a pedestal at the spot where the hallway T’d off toward the east and west stairs.

I tiptoed out toward Saint Theresa. I don’t know why, since I was barefoot and no one would hear me anyway. More than anything, I was aware of the sticky tiles against my feet, and how hard and pointed my nipples were. I pulled on one of them nervously, and something between my legs sort of swelled. It felt heavy, like a ball of lead in my stomach was trying to push its way out through my vagina. It made it hard to walk, but I kept on, scared I was going to pee myself any second.

Left around the corner, past the girls’ room, one of those heavy, hissing fire doors opened into the east stairwell. The stairs were metal, and cold, with round handrails on either side. Everything was painted green, and there were columns of square bars beneath the center rails that rose in front of me, towering over my head as they reached the landings and turned back on themselves. I felt like a monkey in a cage.

The overhead lights on the third-floor were turned off, and the old, dark wood along the walls smothered whatever feeble illumination was left. I peeked around the corner. arms crossed over my titties, to make sure the coast was clear. All the classroom doors were closed, except for one, about halfway along, where a pale strip of daylight cut through the murk.

The room where Sister was waiting was down at the other end of the hall. The door looked smaller than it did back when I was in first grade, but it was just as forbidding. It was made of thick-grained oak, with deep-set panels, a black knob, and an old-fashioned keyhole in a black plate. We kids never knew what was behind it. The nuns never told us, and we were afraid to ask, but everybody imagined it was something spooky. One boy said the room was haunted. Another said it was where they kept dead bodies before funeral Masses at church.

I always thought it was just used for storage, but now, on the last leg of my walk of shame, I was thinking that a third boy came closest with his theory: he said they took bad kids in there and chained them up.

The corridor smelled of chalk dust, sharpened pencils and that stuff they sprinkle on the floor when a kid throws up. The floor up here wasn’t tile, either, just old, wavy planks that had been sanded almost to dust over the years. My heart was pounding, and I went slowly when I should have been racing to get out of sight. Every inch of my body felt prickly.

I passed the open classroom door. I didn’t see anyone inside, but I hadn’t taken another three steps when a booming voice behind me yelled, “YOU!”

My skin stood up all over. I stopped dead, still facing the oak door, which looked farther away than ever, until the voice commanded me in a crazy accent: “Turn ar-rount, younk voo-man.”

I did. A little nun I’d never seen before was standing outside the open classroom. I wouldn’t have believed anybody so tiny could yell the way she did, but her hard face made it plain she was holding back a storm. Big round glasses sat on her little beak of a nose, flashing with a milky light that hid her eyes. She glared up at me like an owl.

“Vot chu doink, trepp-sink aroun’ de school vit no close on?” she said. “Leetle children study here. Mebbe dey still here. Mebbe dey see you.”

“Sister Lucretia told me to do it,” I said.

“Vy?” the little nun demanded. “Vy good Seester Lu-kreetz make you do some-sink so eef-il? Tell me dot.”

“She told me to.”

“You said dot. I vant know vy.”

“I did something bad,” I said. “And this…this is part of my punishment.”

“Vot you do that was so bad? — Vell?”

There’s really no excuse for getting caught without your clothes on. All I could do was tell the truth.

“I wasn’t wearing panties in class,” I said.

“Ah!” the little nun said. “I see! So you go to de pen-antz room! Seester Lu-kreetz, she teach you lesson, ja? You know, venn you come out, you not be de same dirty gull dot go in.”

She marched up to me and clapped a hand between my legs.

“Vet!” she said. “You like your leetle poosy-cat, ja?”

She rubbed me a few times, back and forth. I was surprised how slick I was down there, and how easily her fingers slid around. I went up on my toes, with my hands on my head, knees bent, butt sticking out. Every muscle in my body was straining. I bit my lip and grunted.

“Ja?” she repeated. She rubbed harder. “It feel good?’

“Yes, Sister,” I confessed. “It does.”

“Den you are dis-kress!” she hissed at me. She pulled her hand away. “You go! You go to de pen-antz room! You safe your soul, you vicked tink! I vant hear you screm!”

She spun me around and gave me a nasty shove. I stumbled on. When I reached the door to my fate, I placed my hand on the knob and looked back over my shoulder. The little nun was still there, her owl eyes boring into my bare ass. She hadn’t moved, except that she was sniffing the fingers she’d shoved in my pussy.

I knocked. Nothing happened, so I knocked again, harder.

“Come in,” Sister Lucretia called.

The little room was darkened with blood-red curtains and ablaze with tiny flames. Candles were everywhere — in sparkling brass sticks, on metal racks, in cups of blue and red glass. They were on the floor, on the walls, hanging in chains from the ceiling, and lined up on a rough wooden table over on the right. There was other stuff on the table, too — stuff I couldn’t see clearly, but laid out evenly in a row — and, on the wall above it, a crucifix that must have been five feet high.

“Close and lock the door,” Sister Lucretia said.

She was standing in the middle of the room. She had her wimple on, and her brown veil spread across her shoulders, but other than that, and the crucifix that hung between her breasts, she was completely naked.

“Tell me. Do you think I’m beautiful?” she said.

“Yes, Sister!”

I meant it. The thing about the nuns at my grade school is that they were all either midgets, like Sister Owl-face, or Amazons. Sister Lucretia was one of the Amazons —long-legged and full-hipped, with broad shoulders, and, I saw now, big, round, high, firm tits. Her skin was soft and golden in the candlelight, and so smooth she could have been a statue, except for her dark red nipples and the black triangle between her legs.

“The Lord blessed me with beauty,” she said. “Or cursed me. When I was your age, I incited my share of lust. I became a bride of Christ to hide my body from the world. But here, in this room, we stand naked before Almighty God. We cannot hide from Him. He sees us as we are. Now come here.”

I was so awestruck, I had no will of my own. I took three wavering steps forward, my eyes locked on those perfect globes and their garnet polar caps.

“Put out your hands,” Sister said.

I obeyed without a thought, and in a flash, my wrists were bound in a pair of heavy leather cuffs. They were lined with fur, but they were awfully tight, and my fingers went cold when Sister tightened the buckles. She worked swiftly, passing a red cord between a set of rings and tying it off with a practiced touch. The cord was looped through an eye-bolt in the ceiling. Sister drew down on the other end, and my hands flew above my head. I went up on my toes and began to rotate, slowly, like a pig on a vertical spit, while Sister, with all due deliberation, tied the cord to a bar on the wall and made her way over to the table.

“Sister, what are you going to do?” I asked. I had gone from awestruck to terrified in a very few moments.

Naturally, she wouldn’t grant me the small comfort of an answer. I’d spun halfway around, facing the bar in the wall, and couldn’t see what she was doing. She knelt behind me and, after giving me a soft but icy pat on the butt, she began messing with my feet. Looking down, I could only see her fingers snaking around, clutching one ankle, then the other. When she stood up again, I couldn’t close my legs. A footlong metal bar was propping them open. It hurt even to try to touch my knees together.

Sister twisted me around and looked me over.

“I think we’re ready now,” she said.  She slipped her hand between my legs and rubbed lightly. Trussed up like I was, there was nothing I could do to stop her, even if I’d wanted to. And that was the most humiliating part, because as much as I hated her at that moment, my pussy was swimming in juice, and more than anything I wanted her to keep fingering me.

“Yes,” she said. “You are definitely ready.”

I whimpered when her hand went away.

“Be patient,” she said.

She returned to the table, and with her back to me, she made a show of fingering the objects she’d laid out, like she was trying to make up her mind which one to pick. But she took longer than she needed to. I was sure she knew what she was looking for. She just wanted me to squirm. Or maybe she wanted me to admire her ass.

When she faced me again at last, she was holding a small, square cutting board. It was at least an inch thick, and it had a handle on the side. It looked like something you’d buy at a kitchen store, but it hardly seemed likely Sister was about to chop vegetables.

“This is the instrument of your salvation,” she said, and she held it under my nose. “Kiss it.”

I touched my dry lips to the wood. It was ridiculous, but when you’re strung up naked, you do as you’re told. Sister circled behind me. She patted my ass again, with the same icy touch as before, though her hand was surprisingly soft. It felt almost as good on my behind as it had between my legs.

“Such a cute little heinie,” she said quietly. “It’s almost a pity to — ”

The end of that sentence was lost in the ear-splitting whap on my ass. The sting was paralyzing. Tears shot from my eyes, and I shrieked — as much from shock as from pain, but definitely from pain. If Sister Owl-face was listening at the door, she got her wish to hear me “screm.” And her wish was going to be granted again and again.

“Aw, poor baby,” Sister Lucretia said. “Did that hurt?”

“Yes, Sister!”

“Well, it was not one one-hundredth of the pain your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ suffered on the cross for you,” she said. “And it is not one one-millionth of the pain you will suffer in hell if I fail to save your soul. Thank your lucky stars you’re getting off so lightly.”

She hit me again, and I shrieked again.

“Now, how much did that hurt?”

“It hurt a lot, Sister. Please don’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, we’ve hardly begun,” she said. “Two whacks are never enough to exorcise the demon of sex. Pray while I cleanse you. Say a Hail Mary. Go on. Start.”

And I recited the words we all learned as babies while Sister paddled my poor bottom.

“Hail, Mary — ugh! — full of grace — ugh! — the Lord is with thee — ah! Blessed art thou — ah! — among women — ow! — and blessed is the fruit — aah! — of thy womb — Jesus! Holy Mary — ugh! — Mother of — God! — pray for us — ah! — sinners — ugh! — now — ah! — and at the hour of — ow! — of our death — ah! — Amen… ow! — Amen! Ow! Please! Ow! Sister, stop! Ow! Pleeaaase! Aah!

“Twenty!” Sister cried.

My ass was on fire. I wept out loud. The tears stood in my eyes like a wall of water, blurring the candle flames into one throbbing white shimmer. Beyond the light the room was spinning, and Plaster Jesus swooped through the air on his cross.

“Oh, Jesus,” I sobbed, “save me!”

“Jesus is saving you,” Sister said. “He’s saving you through me. You should see your bottom right now — such a rosy glow. I do excellent work. But your lesson isn’t quite over.”

“No, Sister, please. Don’t do it anymore. I’ll be good. I won’t ever do it again, I promise! Please!”

“How many times have I heard that before?” she said sadly.

She went back to the table and laid the board aside. My eyes cleared enough for me to see her pick up a crinkled tube and a stubby white candle that wasn’t lit. She held the tube over the candle, like she was putting toothpaste on a brush, and a string of clear jelly flowed from the narrow mouth, glittering in the candlelight. Sister smiled at me over the tube.

“It’s always fun to go to the drug store and buy this,” she said. “They can never figure out what a nun would need it for.”

She put the tube down and smeared the jelly all around the candle. Then she held the candle to my face.

“Kiss this, too” she said. “It is the bond of a new covenant.”

Up close, I saw it wasn’t a candle. It was plastic, not wax, and there was no wick, not even a hole for one. But I kissed the tip, just the same, and licked the grease from my lips.

“Now—” Sister said, and she went out of sight behind me.

She slid her hand into my butt crack, over my asshole and between my legs. Her fingers were oily from the stuff in the tube, and her touch was soothing on my scorched behind. I let out a deep breath.

“Feel better?” Sister asked.

“Yes, Sister. A little.” It was so weird. She was having a great time making me suffer, and yet I was grateful for any little show of sympathy.

I felt myself filling up, stretching around something hard and slick. Sister was stuffing the big lubed candle into my vagina.

But I was right: it wasn’t a candle. Something clicked, and the plastic thing started to buzz. A trickle of pleasure, hardly noticeable at first, began to spread from my insides to the jillions of nerve endings that ringed my pussy lips.

“Don’t you dare let that fall out,” Sister said in my ear. “If it hits the floor, I will paddle you senseless.”

“I won’t, Sister. I promise.”

I clenched my inner muscles around the buzzing tube. The tingling grew stronger, and I almost forgot about my sore ass.

Sister made one last trip to the table and came back with yet another contraption. This one looked like some kind of medieval toilet brush, with a bundle of black ribbons hanging from a stick. She swung the ribbons lazily from side to side, and then, with an evil smirk, she slashed them across my chest. I gasped in fright — the lashes felt like they all had tiny teeth along the edges — but the pain didn’t seem so bad. Between my buzzing pussy and my stinging titties, I barely knew what was happening.

Sister held the whip beneath my chin.

“Tell me you’re a slut,” she said.

My mind was whirling. I couldn’t make myself talk, and Sister Lucretia was very clear on the need for instant obedience. She swatted my chest again, even more savagely.

“Say it!” she said.

“I’m a slut,” I said.

“Tell me you’re a fucking dirty little whore.”

“Sister, we’re not allowed to say that word—”

Slash!

“I’m a fucking dirty little whore!” I cried.

“Now say, Holy Mary, pray for me, for I am a lustful, filthy little cunt.”

“Holy …holy Mary —” I never finished the prayer. The buzzing in my lustful, filthy little cunt had become overwhelming, and Sister had begun to twirl the heavy black lashes around my little breasts. My nipples were agonizingly sensitive, and the scratching of those tiny razor teeth was enough to drain my mind of any thoughts of atonement. I could only wail and babble as my body convulsed endlessly. It was the same feeling I had when I touched myself that time, but far, far beyond it — the difference, really, between feeling God’s presence in your heart and actually seeing Him in all His glory.

Sister stopped whipping my tits. She gripped the back of my neck and pulled me close.

“Suck it,” she demanded.

My face sank deep into the pillowy breast. My lips went around the nipple, which swelled and hardened in my mouth. I sucked and sucked, like a starving baby, while the vibrating mass in my cunt sent tongues of fire shooting through my body.

“You are a wicked little girl,” Sister moaned. “Suck harder, you wicked little bitch. It’s all you’re good for. Oh … sweet Jesus!”

I couldn’t see, with a mouthful of tit, but I heard a wet slapping sound, and Sister’s wrist was knocking against my stomach. I knew what she was doing. She was going at her own cunt, and with some kind of fury. It would have shocked me — she was committing the same sin she was punishing me for! — if I hadn’t been half out of my mind with sex. She gasped the words “come” and “coming,” and oh, did she take the Lord’s name in vain, and the whole time, all I could think was, if this is penance

I barely noticed when Sister finally turned off the vibrator. I hung limp in my leather cuffs, dead weight, unable to straighten up or move. If not for the rope in the ceiling, I would have crumpled to the floor.

Sister took a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up. She looked me sternly in the eye, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. Mostly, I was numb, but somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a glimmer of awareness that my soul had been cleansed.

“If you ever tell anyone about this, you’ll go straight to fucking hell,” Sister said. “And if I ever catch you dressing indecently again, I will drag your ass back up here and whip you within an inch of your life. Now, go and sin no more.”

***

“Excuse me, Sister Lucretia?”

“Yes, who’s there? Come in.”

“Remember me?”

“Miss Beaver! Of course, I remember you.”

It was late on a Friday. The kids had all gone home, and I found Sister Lucretia at her desk. Alone, as usual.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” she said.

“I was passing by on my way home —”

“You’re at St. Sebastian’s now,” she said. “You’ve traded our uniform for theirs.”

“Everything but the shoes,” I said.

“What year are you in?”

“Still a freshman,” I said.

“So you only graduated last year,” she said. “I do lose track of the time. You’re becoming quite an attractive young woman.”

“You told me once that wasn’t a compliment.”

“Beauty is more trouble than it’s worth,” she said. “The important thing is, are you being a good girl?”

“I am,” I said. “I’ve never let a boy touch me — and I have you to thank for that.”

“Then we’ve done some good.”

“That wasn’t a compliment, either.”

“Nobody likes a smart-mouth,” she said.

“And nobody likes a cruel bitch.”

“Is that what you came back here for — to insult a nun?”

“No, I came back to ask you a question,” I said.

“Then ask.”

“Do you remember what you said to me that day in the penance room?”

“I said a lot of things.”

“When it was over.”

“Remind me.”

“That if you ever caught me again, you know…”

“Oh yes. If I ever caught you dressing indecently again, I would take you back upstairs, and it would be much the worse for you. What about it?”

“Did you mean it?”

“I never say anything I don’t mean. Why?”

I hiked my skirt up to my waist.

“I might have known,” Sister said.

“I’ve been traipsing around like this all day.”

“You need another lesson.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Very well, then. Take your clothes off. Every stitch.”

“Yes, Sister.”

The End

 

28 Comments on The Mortification of the Flesh

  1. Joe Dornish says:

    Oh my gosh, what a wonderful read that was! I enjoyed every word.

  2. Erocritique says:

    .
    This may well be my new favorite standalone short story in this genre. It accomplishes everything one could ask for while using an economy of words. – A shot of kinky espresso, if you will. – Extremely stimulating. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

  3. sue says:

    I’ve been looking at the opening illustration and caption. The story will have to wait for awhile because I’m loving the pic so much at the moment.

  4. sue says:

    Okay, I gave the story 5 hearts. Ms Beavers,( a heart just for the girls name) naked romp around the school is much like the scene in ‘blessed Sacrament’ which for me is not a bad thing.

    On the one hand the story may be too true to life in the abuse of a young girl by religious authority figures.

    On the other hand,( the one I rubbed off with) the story is like Erocritique said, “A shot of kinky espresso, if you will.”

    Well done for those who like this sort of tale. I could smell the Lysol and chalk in the hallways that didn’t quite cover up the scent of musky pussy.

    Forgive me Sister, for I have sinned. Twice, to this story, ; )

  5. Carol Anne says:

    Mmmmmm very hot JJ, I am surprised it took so long for Ms Beavers to come back. I love her innocence that she though the small vibrator was a candle at first, until she got a close up look at it. It brought back some memories of Catholic school and I wonder how many other girls have been in that room and have returned for more!

  6. Jay says:

    I enjoyed learning as an alter boy and confessing. My first of many good times.

  7. Mo says:

    Fab story! I love the notion of Ms Beavers thinking back to her submission to Sisyer L & eventually she couldn’t resist her desires.

    One negative point the German nun reminded me of Edna Mole so not going to watch The Incredibles again!

  8. Jacqueline Jillinghoff says:

    This looks like it. Thank you to those of you who commented. We writers like to tell ourselves that when a story isn’t popular, it appeals to a discerning few. I’ll comfort myself with that thought.

  9. cherryco says:

    Ooh, I LIKED this one. Very dark and nasty but in a good way. Thanks for sharing it.

  10. kinkychic says:

    It is not the writing, that is very well done. As I would expect from JJ.

    The problem is the subject matter. Not to everyone’s taste I fear and bound to get a mixed reception.

  11. Sybille says:

    Hi Jaceline

    Such a wonderful tale. Thank you very much for sharing it with us.
    I especially love the very short interlude with Sister “Owl”.

    Looking forward to discover more of your writings.

    Hugs & Kisses
    Sybille

    • Jacqueline Jillinghoff says:

      Sybille: Thanks so much for your comment. I’m rather fond of Sister Owl-Eyes myself.

      So, Danny: Nyah nyah nyah nyah.

  12. Miss Spent Youth says:

    I enjoy everything I ever read by Ms Jillinghoff, and this new story did NOT let me down. It might be her hottest yet. Don’t ever stop what you’re doing, Ms J, because you do it so well!

    • Jacqueline Jillinghoff says:

      Thanks, MSY. You might just have changed my mind about something. This is actually a decade-old story that I have plucked from the archives and revised, so perhaps I peaked years ago.

      • Miss Spent Youth says:

        Nah… your other stories are all awesome too. When I said this one MIGHT be your hottest, it was because it also might be Floor Show. Still trying to decide.

  13. Phil says:

    Well done! Hot stuff, too!

  14. Tommyo says:

    Fantastic tale! Well done..

  15. eloquent delinquent says:

    Another scorching little tale from JJ – it had all the kinks and fetishes a story on this topic could wish for, and does it all so economically you don’t realize how capable the writing is until after the heat dissipates.

    One thing I adored was the heightened reality of everything that was happening, descriptions and characters so lush, textured, and vivid that it became almost mythic. It shares a bit of that same “fairy tale” magic that was present in your ‘Egg’ story, and I really appreciated it.

    Great, sexy storytelling.

  16. kinkys_sis says:

    What do sisters know? My sister that is. Come to think of it, she hasn’t smacked my arse in ages, and I hardly ever wear any panties.

    That was some deliciously naughty tale, it’s left me feeling weak-kneed and very dribbly.

    The writing is as I expect from JJ, a delight to read. I especially loved the ending, a nice twist.

    ***

    Sister… where are you? I need punishment for my lubricious thoughts.

    • Jacqueline Jillinghoff says:

      Oh, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, I am very happy you read the tale at last. Here’s to your lubricity.

    • Clit Licker says:

      I’m delighted to hear from you, kinkys_sis, and equally so to find that you’re still playing with your sister. Maybe if you’re naughty enough to put your knickers on more often, you’ll get your arse smacked more – with them off, of course.

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