by Jefferson James
The very men who just moments before had witnessed my humiliation with rapt, lusty attention, now had not one whit of interest in me. All eyes focused on Madame Le Monde as she mounted a dais at one end of the long room. Not even the girls in their brightly colored dresses, parading about the courtyard, warranted so much as a glance.
“I know you are all eager to make acquaintance with your breakfast companion, so I shall attempt to be brief,” Madame Le Monde said in a commanding voice.
One moderately intoxicated man called out, “I’ve made her acquaintance and far more on many occasions. I want Monique. She has a talent like none other.”
The other men laughed heartily, but Madame Le Monde was not amused. She scowled at the man, hushing him and the others with her demeanor. With a wave of her hand, she signaled the only other female in the room, a young, dark-skinned beauty I had not noticed before. Whereas everyone else was standing upright, she had apparently been kneeling somewhere at the rear of the room. As she approached me, she wiped her chin with a silk handkerchief, removing a rivulet of what looked like thin custard.
“Before adjourning to the courtyard, as always, an ingenue will be put on display for your titillation,” Madame Le Monde said, directing the men’s attention across the courtyard and to the windows of the west wing where until this morning I had resided. “Father Du Bois informs me that this little tart has been having lustful thoughts and sexual dreams, but has not yet succumbed to the temptation of self-gratification. Therefore, despite her young age, another deflowering will take place in the salon tomorrow morning. You may begin bidding for her maidenhead at any time.”
The men each took a spyglass from the window ledge and peered in the direction indicated by Madame Le Monde. The dark-skinned girl took hold of my hand, tugging gently, indicating that she wished me to accompany her. As she led me from the room, I stole a glance through the windows. Much to my horror, I saw my best friend, my dear, sweet Clarissa, at her window totally naked. Turning this way and that, she attempted to remain facing Matron, much as I had done the previous day and earlier this morning. The poor lamb… As unaware as I had been, she was innocently driving up the price one of these vile men would pay for the pleasure of defiling her as the others watched.
As we went down the corridor, I hoped the young Nubian was leading me to someplace I could bathe and set right my clothing. Instead, she led me to the chapel. She must have seen something about my manner that I did not myself recognize. After all I had been through, I was desperate for holy guidance. Was I to blame for what had happened to me? I fought to the best of my ability. What more could I have done? Was my fornication outside of wedlock as much my sin as that of Monsieur La Croix?
As I stood before the altar genuflecting and praying to the Blessed Virgin, my mind reeling with questions concerning the loss of my own virginity, I saw Father Du Bois standing in the doorway that lead to the rectory. He took one look at my disheveled appearance and motioned for me to join him. Once inside, he closed the door behind me and asked, “Have you been with a man?”
My shame being overwhelming, I buried my face in my hands and wept.
“Believe me, Father, I tried my best to prevent it,” I cried. “I resisted with all my strength, but failed.”
“Come, child,” he said, taking me by the arm. “Your body is a temple of the Lord and must again be consecrated and cleansed of the evil that has befallen it.”
He led me to a corner set off with heavy draperies where he had erected a private altar. Lifting and kissing an ornate chalice, he whispered a prayer, blessing the water within it. With a moistened finger, he drew the sign of the cross on my trembling forehead and spoke softy. His words I did not understand, for he spoke in Latin, or so I believe.
Partially relieved by the commencement of my salvation, I lowered my hands to my sides. Gazing at the staid face of Father Du Bois through the blur of my tears helped ease the sense of debasement that had permeated my being. As his own gaze fell on the top of my disarrayed frock and my hurriedly cinched bodice, I noted a change in his demeanor. He had the same stoic expression, but behind his eyes there seemed to be the flicker of a flame.
“Bare your breasts,” he commanded.
I was taken aback, and he saw that I was.
“You were touched in an improper fashion, were you not?” He asked.
It was true. I had been, and I nodded in reply.
“You have been defiled, child. We must act quickly. Your breasts have become a doorway to your soul through which the devil will most assuredly enter if we delay. I implore you, child. Bare yourself and allow me to bless your breasts and close the door to Satan and his minions.”
His words terrified me. Could my modesty have resulted in my damnation? I still did not wish to show myself to a man. But did I have a choice? Was it truly a matter of embarrassment versus eternal damnation?
Slowly, haltingly, I unlaced my bodice. My face bright crimson with shame, I hesitantly lowered the front of my frock, displaying my young bosom to Father Du Bois. He smiled in what I believed to be a reassuring manner, but it did little to ease the humiliation I was feeling.
As I stood trembling, Father Du Bois said another prayer and dipped into the chalice. Placing his cold, wet fingertips to my naked flesh, he made the sign of the cross over the very tip of each of my breasts. A shiver, like the tongue of Satan, slithered up my spine. Then, much to my horror, my nipples grew stiff and protruded.
“It is worse than I imagined,” Father Du Bois exclaimed, seemingly as shocked as I.
Quickly setting aside the vessel of Holy Water, he began ardently thrashing my bosoms with his open hand. The pain was intense and I attempted to turn away.
“Stand firm, child,” he ordered, grasping me by the base of my neck. “We must drive these demons from your breasts before they succeed in swallowing your soul.”
His flailing hand withdrew for an instant and then returned. Now, it held a birch rod. The very thought of it being used on my tender bosom filled me with a quaking fear. I felt for a moment as if the demons were about to overwhelm me. If not for Father’s strong grasp, I would have bolted and fled the rectory. The temptation to flee was almost too strong. I was preparing to wrest myself free when his voice, like that of God, rang in my ears, saying, “It must be done or you shall surely go to Hell.”
I knew then what I had to do. A moment’s pain could not be compared to an eternity of agony. Tears flowed down my cheeks like rivers. My body shook like a cart on a bumpy trail. Nevertheless, I arched my back and thrust forward my chest, presenting my breasts so that Father Du Bois could thrash the devil out of them.
Still, I was not prepared for what followed. He struck me. Then, he struck me again and again. Cries tore from my throat, but he did not cease. I hurt so badly I grew faint and staggered. If not for his firm hand at the back of my neck I may very well have fallen. Without pause, he laid blow after blow upon my bosom. Fiery red welts arose. Even so, he continued. The inferno itself could have scarcely burned hotter.
Finally, Father Du Bois was exhausted and stopped. Or at least, I thought it was exhaustion he was suffering from. His breathing was fast and ragged. His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. Sweat glistened on his brow. I, myself, was in such agony that words nearly fail me. My poor breasts stung as if they had been attacked by an entire swarm of hornets. I wanted dearly to stroke them in an attempt to ease the pain, but I did not wish to seem impenitent. With my voice shaking, I asked, “May I cover myself?”
“Not yet,” Father Du Bois replied, leading me to low, padded bench.
As I nervously took a seat, Father Du Bois towered over me, his stare fixed on my naked chest. His face was flush, but it was not an expression of shame. If he were not a priest, I would have thought it to be lust. Then, touching the birch rod lightly to my thigh, he asked in a booming voice, “This man… Did he defile you further? Did you lie down with him? Did he use you like a harlot? …his body on top of yours, his legs between yours, pressing, his member filling you, thrusting and bellowing like some rutting beast?”
The tone of Father’s Du Bois questions frightened me as much as the birch rod in his hand. It was like the demons he had driven from my breasts were now within him. He seemed enraged. I was aghast with the thought of him venting that rage upon me. Lying on my back with my legs open, my privates exposed as he flogged my womanly parts was unthinkable. I slid to the floor and sat, protecting myself.
“Please, Father, there must be another way,” I begged. ” I could not stand such pain. Perhaps you should consult the Bishop.”
“Get back on the bench,” he ordered. “Bare yourself. It must be done.”
I shook my head vehemently, refusing to budge.
“Please, child, there is no other way,” he said. “We must act quickly.”
His tone had softened, but the ache in my breasts and the birch rod in his hand kept me firmly planted on the floor. He moved closer and I scooted away. He lunged. I kicked. He caught my ankle and attempted to force my legs apart. Rolling from side to side, I thankfully broke free.
Father Du Bois grew angry and struck out, laying a stinging blow to the side of my leg. Then, just as suddenly he grew very calm. Holding the rod behind his back he smiled and said in a kindly fashion, “It is for your own good, child. I will be as gentle as I can.”
I was still not convinced. I tightened my skirts about my legs and shook my head. Knowing no other recourse, I began begging, “Please, Father, consult the Bishop or the Cardinal. There must be another way.”
At that moment, the same redheaded beauty I had seen in the parlor earlier burst into the room.
“There is no time for this,” she said. “This girl’s presence is needed elsewhere. She must come with me.”
“Please, Janine, allow me another moment or two,” Father Du Bois requested. “She is being most difficult.”
Janine looked at me as I cowered on the floor and then to Father Du Bois.
“Perhaps a moment or two,” she said sternly. “But I suggest you move along to the next step in your little ritual.”
Father Du Bois nodded several times and said, “Yes, yes. There is another way, child. Come pray while I prepare.”
Both of them motioned for me to kneel at the altar. I was so relieved I hurriedly moved into position. I had scarcely begun praying for my salvation when Janine, who was now at my side, began lifting my skirts.
“Lean forward and open your legs,” she said. “Let the good Father get at your cunt.”
I did not believe my ears. My eyes snapped open and I did not believe them, either. Father Du Bois stood to the other side of me. He was holding his robes aloft and anointing his male member with Holy Water.
“My blessed fluid will do The Lord’s work,” he told me. “Like the Great Flood of Noah’s time, it will wash away the evil seed sown within your womb. It is the only way to consecrate that place inside of you.”
I began to protest, but Janine hushed me.
“Let him do his deed and be thankful. It could have been much worse for you,” she said, pushing me forward and pulling at my knee.
Father Du Bois pulled my other knee in the opposite direction. Losing my balance, I toppled over. My face was pressed against the soft velvet of the altar and my bare bottom was in the air, my legs spread wide and my privates, with its sparse, curly hair still damp for earlier, was fully accessible. I can not adequately express the shame I felt. My feminine parts were on display before a priest. At his behest, I was offering them to him.
“This can not be right,” I said. “It feels so wrong, so very wrong.”
Father Du Bois moved behind me and knelt, saying, “I am a man of God. Do you think I would break my vows with The Almighty simply to fornicate with a young girl? I am doing this for your salvation, child. I promise you, I do this for your soul and not my own pleasure.”
I was so confused. I felt worse than I had in the parlor. I truly felt like the prostitute Madame Le Monde wished me to be. Unlike before, I was not resisting, but was instead being accommodating. I did, however, feel I needed to trust Father Du Bois to know what was right. If one can not trust a priest, who can one trust?
“Enough talk,” Janine said, in a scolding tone. “Her cunt is ready and waiting. Mount her and get on with it.”
Father Du Bois lowered his hand to his privates, where I could not now see, and made a movement, explaining, “I’m afraid my tool has yet to rise to the occasion.”
For some unknown reason Janine sighed and than began to give her confession, deciding on her own penance as well. She snatched up the birch rod Father Du Bois had used on my breasts, sat back, lifted her skirts and began striking her damp privates and the insides of her creamy white thighs, saying, “Forgive me father for I have sinned. I have been with four men. In payment for goods, I allowed the grocer to take me atop a table in the pantry. A short time later, I pleasured Dr. Baudelaire in the parlor. Moments before arriving here, I fornicated with two men, whose names I do not know, one after the other in the courtyard. It is a combination of their seed you see leaking from me now.”
I was shocked. She meant four men just this morning! As she continued her self-flagellation, she began whimpering and reciting Hail Mary’s. A soft moan escaped the lips of Father Du Bois and suddenly his erect tool began sliding into me. I was still moist from earlier and the left behind fluids eased his entrance. In the blink of an eye my young belly once again had a man filling and refilling it.
Although Father Du Bois had said his actions were holy, I still felt ashamed. How was it that being saved was so very similar to the sin itself? After only a short time of having Father’s turgid member sliding in and out, in and out of my tight, wet sheath I found myself breathing hard like before. As he continued, his pace quickening, his naked belly slapping against my bare bottom, his thick tool moving back and forth deep within me, I felt myself becoming enveloped by the same warmth I had previously.
Had I been wrong? Were the mildly pleasant feelings I had experienced with Monsieur La Croix not a temptation of the devil but instead natural? Were they more akin to the delightful sensations one has while washing an ear or scratching an itch? With each moment they grew more and more intense and threatened to engulf me entirely.
Father Du Bois himself behaved much like Monsieur La Croix had. As he pushed and pulled his stiff member in and out of me faster and faster, plunging deeper and deeper, he moaned louder and louder. The sounds coming from his lips did not invoke thoughts of heavenly joy as much as they did carnal lust. He wasn’t driving his tool into me simply out of a sense of duty; he was taking pleasure in the act.
“Bless you, child,” Father Du Bois said as his passion neared cresting. “Bless you.”
Whether he was truly blessing me, or just expressing his gratitude, I know not. What I do know is: My cunt, as Janine had called it, was awash with the warm, slippery fluid erupting from the tool of Father Du Bois. He was thrusting and groaning, thrusting and groaning, and I was growing wetter and wetter to the point I felt a trickle streaming down the inside of my thigh. His pace did not diminish. For the longest time he kept on thrusting, his tool churning and gushing, my cunt flooding and squelching, his seed leaking and running down my leg. Then he withdrew.
Father Du Bois was barely out of me when Janine dragged me to my feet. She took me to the far side of the rectory, pushed aside a tapestry and led me though a hidden passage and into a darkened hall. As we hurried along, I held my bosom. My breasts still ached and their jiggling caused me pain.
“They hurt so,” I told Janine. “If he were not a priest, I would think he struck me harder than necessary and enjoyed doing so.”
Turning to me with a wry smile, Janine said, “If death were to ride his black horse through this place, harvesting our souls, Father Du Bois would immediately be dispatched to Hell so that he could greet the rest of us as we arrived.”
The End of Chapter Two
(c) Copyright May 2001 by Jefferson James. All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for a single copy, by and for the person reading this notice, for private reading.