Sister Monica Ch 05

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for all the great feedback and suggestions. It's been fantastic hearing from you. The overwhelming consensus I received was to continue the story . . . and so here is chapter 5. I hope you enjoy it . . .

*

"Oh, I should really buy this," Sister Monica said, picking up a jar of boysenberry jam from the wooden shelf. "Sister Catherine loves boysenberry!"

Josh smiled. It was a sunny, unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon in late March. Most of the winter snow had melted by now, and the promise of spring, of rebirth, was so close as to be palpable. It had been a month since Sister Monica told him she was renouncing her vows, and, without a doubt, it had been the best month of his life. They had to be discreet, of course, but they still managed to see each other quite often. Just last night, he had brought Sister Monica to three orgasms in her office, and he came twice. Today, he decided to take her out for a drive—just see where the road led them. And now, here they were, thirty miles from campus, walking, hand in hand, down the aisles of an old-time country store.

He held up the shopping basket he'd picked up when they came in. It was empty save for a box of crackers and a package of sharp cheddar cheese—lunch. They would eat the cheese and crackers in the car.

"Put 'er in, then, sexy," he said, and Sister Monica did. Actually, she put in three jars of jam. One for Sister Catherine, one for Sister Helen, and another for Sister Rosemary.

"You have to let me pay for those," she said.

Josh shook his head. He wouldn't hear of it. Every time he took his beautiful teacher out, he insisted that he treat her. His parents, back in far-off California, had provided him with start-up money for a checking account, which he'd set up at a local bank at the start of his freshman year. It was supposed to be a pragmatic fund, to be used for books, supplies, things he needed. The plan was that he'd get a part-time job, too, so he could earn an income while away at college. And during his freshman and sophomore years, that's exactly what he had done—manning the register at a gas station on weekends and some evenings. And he had supplemented his checking account with some of the money he'd earned from that job. So, at the start of this, his junior year, he decided not to work—to live off the money in his checking account—at least for a while. Maybe he'd get a job again in his senior year. Of course, at the time he made the decision to quit his gas station job, he didn't realize he'd soon be dating someone exclusively, someone he wanted to lavish with gifts and attention. In just the one month they had been seeing each other, Josh had already spent hundreds of dollars on Sister Monica—taking her out to eat, buying her new lingerie, a couple of new short-sleeved tops, two pairs of jeans, even a pair of earrings and a necklace. She always told him it wasn't right—that she should pay her own way—but up until now, he had been steadfast in his refusal.

"Nope," he said, as he fiddled with the jam jars. "If Sister Catherine and Sister Helen and Sister Rosemary are going to sink their teeth into these boysenberry preserves, I'll be the one to buy 'em. You just keep browsing, beautiful. And pick up anything you want."

She shook her head. "Okay, Josh. But this can't continue. I have to treat you to something sometimes, too, you know. Otherwise, I might start getting a complex." She smiled, and he kissed her. How many times had he kissed her since the middle of February? Hundreds of times, easily. And yet, each time they kissed, he felt his blood rush a little faster, his senses come alive a little sharper. He fell in love with her more every day.

And he loved the way she was gradually changing her wardrobe. When she taught class, she still pinned her hair up, and still wore loose-fitting clothing. Most of the time. Last week she had come to class with that sexy pullover sweater of hers, which clung to her breasts and showed off her hourglass figure. And when they went out, to eat, to the movies, wherever, she always had her red hair loose, letting it fall halfway down her back. And she usually wore either the tops and jeans he'd bought her or something of her own—something not revealing, but not concealing either. Today she was wearing one of the tops he'd bought for her—a blue short-sleeved shirt that fit her snugly and really showed off her figure—and a pair of the jeans he'd bought for her—they weren't tight but they hugged her butt and accentuated her curves—and the silver-chain necklace he'd purchased just last week. She was a knockout. A couple of the male customers at the front of the store had ogled her already.

They walked under a low arch and entered a quiet back section of the store, where old dusty paperbacks lined the racks like a collection of orphans seeking to charm would-be benefactors. "Damn," he said. "I didn't think a store like this would have all these books." He scanned the selection. Romance novels, mostly, along with some regional nonfiction. But there were a few gems, too—Main Street by Sinclair Lewis, a collection of poems by Robert Frost, an anthology of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. And An American Tragedy. God, he hated that book. He had to read it for class last semester.

"Ick," he said, when he spotted it.

Sister Monica raised her eyebrows.

"What? You like that?" Josh asked.

She smiled, shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"But . . . Dreiser can't even write!" he said. "The book goes on and on and on! He can hardly put two adequately worded sentences together."

"Well . . ." Sister Monica grabbed the book off of the shelf, leafed through it. "It's the themes that make it a classic, Josh. Dreiser paints such a lucid picture of the dark side of the American Dream. You should read it again. Try to get past the prose style and look for the message underneath." She tossed it into their shopping basket.

"Hey, no way!" he protested.

"It's only two dollars," she said and put her arms around him. They kissed. Well, she could be persuasive, he had to admit. . . .

There was nobody back here—this little corner of the store was all theirs. Why not?

He pulled her shirt out from her jeans, reached under it, caressed her back, feeling for her bra strap. Perfect. She was wearing her black lace. Probably had on the matching G-sting, too. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she eagerly reciprocated.

He lowered his hands, cupped her butt, through the denim of her jeans. She moaned in his mouth, probed a little further with her tongue. Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

"Josh, we can't," she said. Her face was flushed. "There are customers just a few feet away."

"They can't see us back here," he said. Of course, they might walk in here—but nothing ventured, nothing gained. . .

He took her in his arms again, and he could feel the heat in her. She wanted it. They tongue-wrestled again, she ran her fingers through his curly black hair. He backed her against the book shelf, and her butt smacked into a shelf of the trashy romance novels. The shelf rattled with the impact and a few of the books fell to floor. "Oops," he said, and she giggled. Then he reached under the front of her shirt, cupped her breasts in his hands. He squeezed, mooshed, pinched her nipples through the thin lace fabric. "Ohhh," she purred, throwing her head back. It, too, hit the spine of a book, and the shelf again rattled against the wall.

He peeled the front of her shirt up, up, until her bra-encased tits were exposed. God, she was gorgeous. He would never tire at the sight of her breasts. They were absolutely perfect. He pulled the bra down, exposing her nipples. Then, leaning in, he took an erect nipple in his mouth, sucking on it, chewing it. He felt Sister Monica's body shudder. And he told himself that he would do it. He would take her, right here, right now, in the back of this country store on this dot-on-the-map small town, on this beautiful March day. He was going to—

He heard someone clearing their throat.

He jerked his head up, pulled down Sister Monica's shirt, and saw the shop owner—a thin old man with a gray five o-clock shadow coating his cheeks.

"Oh dear," Sister Monica said, quickly adjusting her bra and tucking her shirt back in.

The old man winked at them. "Mind you, I'd have just stood here and watched ya," he said. "Been a damn long stretch since I been privy to the likes of that. But damn if I don't got some customers out here, and one of 'em looked in here and saw you." Josh heard Sister Monica gasp at this, but he just smiled. "Guess she didn't have the same affinity I do for public displays. God damn shame if you ask me. But I got to ask you to stop. 'Least till you get back in your car, anyway." He winked at them again. "Young fella, you are one hot-damned lucky son of a gun. If I was fifty years younger . . ." He eyed Sister Monica, whistled, and left the room.

"Oh gosh," Sister Monica said. "I am so embarrassed!"

Josh just laughed. "Come on, sexy lady. Guess we should check out, huh?"

Back in the main section of the store, Josh looked around at the customers, trying to guess which one had blown the whistle on them. There. He was sure she must have been the one. A thin black-haired, tight-lipped, scowling woman whose nose looked so sharp he thought maybe it could cut glass. Killjoy.

At the register, the old owner continued to stare at Sister Monica. Josh couldn't blame the guy. Watching her make out had probably given the old-timer a hard-on. "I'm really sorry, sir," she said. "We had no idea . . . I mean . . . "

The shop owner chuckled, waved a dismissive hand. "Don't think nothin' of it, ma'am. Believe me, I've seen it all in my day. But, if you ever want a part-time job . . . I could always use the help." He winked again. "What do you do for a livin' anyway, miss? Curiosity gets the better of me these days, I find."

But before Sister Monica could respond, Josh blurted out, "Oh. Well, she's a practicing Catholic nun, who lives in a convent across the street from the university where she teaches."

Sister Monica's mouth dropped open, and her eyes bugged out. Josh fought hard to restrain himself from busting his gut with laughter.

"Is that a fact?" the old man said. "Well, I'm the archbishop of Canterbury myself. I just run this little country store in my spare time. You know, like a hobby."

Josh couldn't fight it any longer. He laughed—loud and hard. And when he and Sister Monica drove a few miles up the road, finding a private spot on what appeared to be an old logging trail, they ate their crackers and cheese and then made explosive, passionate love. Underneath her outward embarrassment, the entire episode had turned her on as much as it had him.

♣

"I can't believe she gave me a B!" Josh was sitting on his bed, flipping through the pages of an essay he'd written for Sister Monica's class. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the first week of April. Mellow early spring sunshine filtered in through the window, highlighting the dust bunnies floating aimlessly around the room. He had worked hard on this essay! It was definitely A material.

"Tell me about it," Steve Dightmann, his roommate, said. He was sitting at their shared PC, surfing the net for adult dating sites. "And hey, what's wrong with a B, anyway? I got a D on my Sociology test last week."

That was small consolation. Steve's standards weren't exactly top-notch. One time, last October, he'd received a C+ on a test and jumped up and down, doing what he called "The Dance of Joy." And this was the same guy who thought Mozambique was a spicy Cajun shrimp recipe.

"Aha!" Steve said. "This one looks like the jackpot. 'Meet lonely wives who aren't getting fulfilled at home.' Damn. I want some of that! You want me to set up an account for you, too, Josh, while I'm at it?"

"Forget it," Josh said, tossing the essay onto the floor. No way was that B material. No freaking way. What was she thinking?? "Most of the profiles on there are probably fake anyway. Besides . . ."

Steve turned his head around to look at him. "Oh, that's right. You're in love. Been seeing some babe with a 34C bra size for the last month or so . . .and I haven't even met her!" He got up, opened Josh's clothes drawer, pulled out the bra Josh had taken from Sister Monica back in February. He squeezed the cups, sighing. "Shit. Wish her tits were in there right now. You tell 'er yet to stop wearing June Cleaver-style lingerie, Josh?"

Josh stood up, took the bra away from his roommate, and put it back in the drawer. He glanced at the computer screen. A half-naked, big-breasted blonde looked back at him, her lips forming into a come-hither pout, her eyes beckoning. That confirmed it. There wouldn't be one real woman on that site. Nothing but a bunch of spambots. He almost felt sorry for Steve—the gullible slob.

"When am I gonna meet her, Josh?" Steve said, sitting back down in front of the PC. "I mean, c'mon, man. You're obviously serious about 'er."

Josh took off his shirt, feeling his roommate's eyes on him. Steve was thirty pounds overweight, soft—some guys in the dorm called him Doughboy, or just Dough for short. Josh, meanwhile, was fit and trim—not musclebound, but well put together. He knew Steve envied him for that.

He threw himself on the bed.

Steve looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a nap," Josh said. "I'm beat."

"A nap?" Steve chuckled. "Shit, what are you, six years old? When am I gonna meet your main squeeze, Josh? C'mon! You've never been so stuck on a chick before."

But Josh didn't reply. He just put the pillow over his head, closed his eyes, and thought of the B Sister Monica had given him. . . .

♣

"So what do you think Shylock means by that?" Sister Monica asked the class. They were reading "The Merchant of Venice" now—a far superior play, Josh thought, to "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"—the yawner they had been assigned previously.

A girl with glasses and short blonde hair raised her hand, answered the question. But Josh was barely paying attention. He was looking out the window—at the muddy campus lawn, snowless now; the bare trees, with limbs like twisted fingers; the daffodils blooming in the distance, their yellow flowers incongruous against the otherwise nondescript grays and browns of early spring. And he was looking at Sister Monica, too. Her sexy figure concealed underneath baggy slacks and a loose-fitting blouse, her hair primly pinned up. But . . . she had on the pair of earrings he had bought her. They were silver hoops, quite large, very noticeable. It was the first time she'd worn any accessories into the classroom.

He watched her move, the graceful way she had about her. She was very much at home in front of the class, lecturing away. But he would have to see her after class, ask her about his grade on that last essay.

"And maybe we'll need to get a little spanking later, too," he said aloud, quietly, eyeing her butt as she wrote something on the blackboard.

When the period was over, he lingered behind. He'd been doing that less over the past month, so it was unlikely any of his classmates would find it odd now. When she saw him still seated at his desk, everyone else gone, Sister Monica smiled at him. "Did you want to talk to me about something, Josh?" she said, approaching him.

He stood up. He towered over her by several inches. He was close to six feet tall, while she stood just under five feet five. "Can I see you tonight?" he asked her. Some protest. And here he'd planned on bitching about his grade. But when she stood so close to him, when he could sniff the flowery fragrance of her hair . . . what did a B matter?

She bit her lower lip, which always drove him wild. "Hmm. I do still have a few more papers to grade for my Renaissance Lit class . . ."

That did it. Mentioning papers. Flowery fragrance or not, he needed to speak up.

"You know, Sister Monica, I can't believe you gave me a B on that last essay," he said. "I mean, c'mon. That was definitely A-quality stuff."

She glanced out the door. So did he. No one was out in the hall.

She put her arms around his neck, looked into his eyes. "Well . . . maybe I was a little hard on you. You're a gifted writer, Josh. You're the smartest person in this class. I guess I just expect a lot from you."

He leaned in, kissed her, his anger over the grade melting away like sugar on her lips. "So you grade me with a double standard," he said.

This seemed to get to her. She pulled away, bit her lip again. "Do you have your paper?" she said.

He did. He fished it out of his notebook, gave it to her. She went to her desk, crossed out the B, and wrote in an A-.

"There," she said. "Better?"

"But . . ." Somehow this disturbed him. "You didn't do that just because we . . ."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not! I can still be objective with your work, Josh." She smiled, and that made him feel better. He worried that he'd insulted her, doubted her professionalism. He hadn't meant to. "Besides, you were right, what you said."

"About the double standard?"

She nodded. "I think I did grade you too hard on this." She held up his essay, then gave it back to him. "I'm sorry about that. It isn't easy grading essays, you know. It's really the part of my job I dislike the most."

He took her in his arms, kissed her ear. "Love the earrings," he said.

She giggled. "Well, the person who bought them for me has good taste."

"I need to see you tonight," he said. "I think I'll burst if I don't."

She kissed him. "Me, too," she said. "And I suppose the papers I need to grade can wait one more day . . ."

He heard footsteps in the hall, pulled away from her. He quickly picked up his Shakespeare book and flipped through it, trying to look studious. The footsteps grew louder, louder, then gradually faded.

"We really shouldn't kiss in here," she said. She had her hand over her heart. "It's too big of a risk."

He nodded. That was true. Infuriating, but true. "Yeah," he said. "Even when you're no longer 'Sister' Monica, it wouldn't be good for anyone to see us. How much longer do you think it'll be anyway?"

"Not long," she said. "Maybe by next week . . ."

It still struck him as odd—the thought of calling her "Monica" rather than "Sister Monica." But she had made her decision to renounce her vows well over a month ago. It was about time they acted on it. She had also rented an apartment; she'd move in on the first of May. "When you get that new job teaching at the college downtown, will you wear your hair loose for your classes, sexy Monica?" he asked then.

She smiled. "I haven't got that job yet, Josh. Don't jinx me."

"Please," he said. "They'd be crazy not to hire you." He was sure she'd get the position. She had already gone through two interviews, and a decision was supposed to be made soon. "But when you get it, let your hair down, pretty lady. It'll be a whole new you."

"We'll see," she said. "I just might. If I get it."

He winked at her. She'd get the job. And he knew she liked to look good. She loved wearing her hair loose. When they went out together, he could tell—the way she carried herself, the way she would fiddle with her hair while they talked or ate at a restaurant. It was almost as if she were in the process of discovering how beautiful she really was, after years of repressing that beauty.

"I know we shouldn't," he said, "but I can't help it." He leaned in close and French-kissed her. "Oh. By the way, how did the sisters like their boysenberry jam? I forgot to ask you about that."

"They loved it!" she said. ♣

He hated the mall, but he liked the lingerie store. And Sister Monica's wardrobe needed to be expanded. He spent an hour browsing the merchandise—not just trying to decide what to buy now, but also planning future purchases.