The Last Reflexive

By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.

Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum

Chapter Seven: Question Me

Harriette sat with head tilted back, gun pressed between her legs, tickling her clit in a most luscious way, behind the door Dude closed softly in departing. She sat staring at patterns painted on the ceiling and her mind, yet saw and thought nothing. All noises evaporated under humming vibrations. Ever strong, she now fought the weakness to surrender, to images of her father's gruesome death swirling round with the continuous drone. Some thoughts appeared suddenly, quite rationally, steeped in cold reason, while others built slowly, emotionally, bordering on hysteria brewed in, hatred? Hatred of what? Her father's killer? At herself, for not being there? What madness, what insanity. What of Dude?

Unable to free her organ from the vibrant embrace of the gun, her clitoris warred with her mind, drawing close to ecstasy while her mind tried reworking itself through confusion. Her poor swollen clit raced to release pent up frustration, while thoughts raced to penetrate a wall of questions.

It has to be true, right? Why would a stranger with my Sarge's gun lie to me, yeah right! And today on his anniversary, the very day my father, my Dad, my best friend, died. This has to be wrong. Somebody has to be setting me up to fail at something... but whom? And what? What am I thinking! Yet, this guy really seems to know my Sergeant; his mannerisms... his infamous temper. Dude saw the look in his eyes when he smiled? Dad told me he didn't smile around his men and certainly never on a mission, because it made him appear human and fallible. He told me he saved all his smiles for me. Thoughts raced through Harriette's mind faster than the buzzing handle vibrated, and she could barely deal with them, even when on the verge of an orgasm. She tried stacking her thoughts up, while her clit screamed for attention. She tried making them coherent, while her clit pushed her to emotional instability. But as with any house of cards, both thought and orgasm kept tumbling, falling short of the tape. When it came to Dude, was there a thread to pick at, one as bloated and ripe as her clit? She pondered on, completely out of control, which she never liked.

This makes no sense, she thought while squeezing her thighs together involuntarily. Would the Government really lie to Aunt Anne? Can't figure that one out... The vibrations finally stopped her thinking, but for a moment. Who the hell is this Dude anyway? Why does he want my help? What in the hell is he talking about and me thinking, when I should be floating around in a cloud right now? Harriette shook her head, squeezed her thighs tighter, and wiped her eyes. She braced herself mentally, and started the handle digging in. Why does he have my Sergeant's wonderful forty-five? And suddenly it came upon her like water from a dam just burst.

"Oh God, please listen to me," she pleaded closing her eyes to a whopping orgasm that lasted almost fifteen minutes, after which she pulled the gun from her little princess, turned it off, and placed it aside, with a giant sound of relief. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhoooo."

Thoughts soon reemerged. Who can help me with this? Padre! "God," she whispered between thoughts, "thank you for him." ...He's always been there for me, even when... Wait, stop! Enough to think about already... Find Padre and talk with him. For sure he'll be able to help me sort the facts from the fiction shit... er, crap. Sorry, God, didn't mean to cuss in Your house.

Her silent pleas were interrupted by sounds of footsteps in the hallway and being upset she jumped on them. Boy, somebody's ass is grass. Padre's translation of 'undisturbed', means 'off limits'. And that means even to the fu-, er, I mean, freaking Pope!! Somebody's gonna get a raft of shi-, er, crap later, Harriette caught herself and stopped to catch her breath.

She mused with a sniffle, then blinked and wiped tears away, drawing many back into their ducts. Harriette sat up, collected herself, and puffed on what was left of her cigarette, with a little sigh. Her clit had subsided by now and already getting worked up again. God... I mean, now I gotta put my cock-hungry organ outta my mind and think, now that I have a plan, and someone I know and trust to help me sift through this shi-, um, mess. With pussy under control and filled with renewed confidence, Harriette stabbed the butt out, picked up the forty-five by its trigger guard and catapulted from her chair in search of Father Costanzo. She whipped open the door, darted from the room and jumped down steps in search of a man who could help. She raced through the rectory and finally found him in the vestibule, slipping from his vestments.

"Padre," she implored a little out of breath.

"Harriette," Father Costanzo said with a start, noticing the gun. He could see Harriette's confusion and concern, and the faint wet spot on her tights to her boots. "Ahem, what's the matter dear child? You're flushed and you've been crying, and you're very wet, or so it appears," the aged priest intoned, not having seen her cry in years, much less appear as if she's just peed in her pants.

"Please, I need your help, Father. Are confessions finished?"

"Never, and I can see you do need something in the way of help. Ummmmm, I may suggest," he stated leaning close to speak in a whisper. "...Ummmm, adult diapers," he finished as a question, but in his knowing way. Harriette looked down at herself and saw what he meant, surprised at how wet she'd gotten her tights. She squirmed to sticky discomfort.

"Um, please, Father? It's not what you think," she shot back with an embarrassed look. It was so unlike Harriette, the priest picked up on it immediately.

"Ohhh," said the old priest, "now I know why you couldn't see yourself a nun," he finished with a chuckle. Father Costanzo narrowed his gaze. "Take your usual confessional, Harriette," he said, handing her a small towel and a small spray bottle. Harriette looked at them quizzically.

"The towel's for you to kneel on, I don't want you, ahem, getting the kneeler wet." Harriette looked at the bottle. "And that's to spray in the confessional just before you leave. Otherwise I'm afraid old Mrs. Clamsnapper, the woman who cleans, may pick up on the scent, and then," he stopped to roll his eyes, "she'll be all over me, tempting me to commit sin, and if I'm hiding she'll rape the gardener sure as poop." He once again donned garments and together they stepped to the small quiet room, where Harriette could plant seeds meant to answer her questions, the priest always had time for his favorite daughter.

Harriette had a particular confessional booth when she wanted a special sense of serenity. Once settled in, kneeling on the towel, and the priest came into view, Harriette commenced with her troubling story, in a quiet torrent of emotional upheaval no longer hampered by the vibrating forty-five. She spoke of her feelings and her soul's torment. She asked forgiveness for ignorance and doubt. She used her religion in the old world way, as a symbolic psychology, a therapy against insanity and hell. She used the priest as he was meant to be used, as if not there, and in reality he wasn't, her unconscious was a tribunal of six wise men who came to her in dreams, and here at confession, and here laid all the answers to all the questions possible for humans to ask. An hour later, once she'd exhausted herself, Father Costanzo told her to recite a rather long intensive set of prayers as penance, meant to help her re-orient, and that was what she wanted, and how her religion worked, for her.

Afterwards she was to meet Father Costanzo in the vestibule. Harriette was left in a garden of potential filled with weeds and red herrings, awaiting the application of intellect and reason. After spraying the confessional, and sticking the towel in her crotch, she did penance and sought the priest out, but found the vestibule empty. Chubby sister Catherine entered gnawing on a chocolate candy bar. She was bubbly as ever and smiled, a chocolate mustache on face.

"Father Costanzo is waiting for you in his office," she offered gently. She seemed happier than usual, almost angelic, but when she noticed the gun in Harriette's hand, and wetness of her tights, a hand went to her mouth and her eyes opened wide, while she yet feigned innocence. "Oh."

"Yo, Sister! What you still doin' here? Mass and confessions are long over," Harriette asked noticing the way she stared at the gun and her legs. "Paaa-lease, sister. The chocolate round your mouth looks way more weird then my carrying a gun and, um, other things," she said smiling. The blushing nun used her sleeve to wipe her mouth and then went on to answer Harriette.

"Well, it's our ecumenical service and I'm so excited! But not in the same way you are, obviously. Today's Valentine's Day, the celebration of love and we're host Church this year," sister said with a giggle, once more glancing at Harriette's tights. "The sisters and I are helping out all we can," Sister Catherine said. She was very animated and Harriette was happy for her. "But enough of that, you go on now and don't keep a good man waiting," the nun chuckled. Suddenly and without warning the plump little nun let out a horrendously long deep well-intentioned fart that echoed and reverberated throughout the halls of the church, to which she looked quite satisfied. Harriette gave the nun a high-five and big grin.

"I've always said you could stand-in for the church bell on Sunday's once you overcome your fear of heights," Harriette said, turning to bound up the deep stairs two at a time, the squishing of her thighs an uncomfortable but merry tune. The office door was open, but Harriette knocked anyway. "Padre, ya here," she quizzed.