He put his dry lips to her sweet, firm young nipple, still warm and damp from the bath. She gasped at the contact and tried to move away, but his sinewy arms held her firmly standing, helpless beside his chair. His hands explored her soft round bottom, pressing her buttocks and probing the crevice, as he tongued and licked at her nipple, now erect and firm in his mouth. She whimpered softly, once, as he transferred his attentions to the other breast, and brought one hand around to stroke and tickle her freshly shaven mons. Soft, damp, pink and nude, she was totally vulnerable, stood in the middle of this dark vaulted room, exposed to the attentive stares of the Brothers in their dark robes. His fingers parted her labia, discovering the wet warmth of her private parts; as one fingertip quivered gently on her clitoris, she shuddered and parted her thighs to allow him greater access.
He lifted his head from her breast, gave her bottom a final pat, and withdrew his hand from between her legs.
'Go, my daughter. Robe yourself. You grow chilled.'
She stood dazed for a second, then a touch on her arm and a fleeting caress of her buttocks made her jump. Brother Francis was there, her cloak already settling on her shoulders, covering her nakedness with dark warm wool.
Tall, lean and silent, Brother Francis led her from the warming room, now huddled in her cloak and stumbling as her body kept replaying the shocking sensations of being presented to the Abbott. She could feel the wet heat between her legs, the sensitive clean-shaven skin of her labia twitching and quivering with every step, her clitoris dancing in time. Her nipples, painfully erect from Father Abbott's attentive tongue, rubbed harshly against her cloak.
Brother Francis was a moving patch of darkness in the patterned dark of the cloisters ahead of her, and her sandalled feet pattered along after him, trying to keep close. They stopped at the door to his rooms, and she followed him in, brushing close against him in the narrow entry way as he waited to close and bolt the door after her. With an excited tremor she wondered if tonight would be the night of consummation; after weeks of being cleansed, fed, cared for, her wounds healed, her mind and body being gently tended by this lean, silent man - would he finally release her from this torture of arousal without fulfillment?
She'd spent every night in his bed, held close to his hard, warm body, enjoying the protection and warmth of his powerful arms around her soft, tender self, his hands resting lightly on her hips, her thighs, stroking her little firm breasts and flat belly - she'd been aware from time to time that his organ was throbbing erect and hard and had touched it, shyly, under the bedclothes, wondering what it might do... he'd taught her by touch and murmured instructions how to pleasure him with her little hands and soft mouth, lying there rigid and silent, allowing himself only a few seconds of violent jerking spasms to discharge his seed into her hand or mouth. She'd learnt to tell his pleasure from the sudden, drenching sweat, the way his swollen, heavy scrotum would tighten even further against his lean thighs, and the quivering hardness of his great erect penis as she ministered to it.
He had never kissed her on the mouth, but she'd learned to trust his tongue and lips as he used them on every inch of her, browsing down her belly after bringing her nipples to tingling, aching arousal, then parting her legs with firm hands, holding her thighs widespread, and lowering his head slowly, deliberately, to probe her soft wet depths, bringing her to moaning, head-rolling orgasm again and again. It was astonishing to be brought to such a pitch of arousal, but never by so much as a fingertip did he penetrate her, although she longed for him to do so. Once she asked him softly, taking his cock in her hand and placing the head of it between her cunt lips, but he had immediately moved away, shaking his head.
'Not until you've been presented, caramia.' And that was all he would say.
Her monthly flow had happened twice since she'd been on the island, and Brother Francis had silently brought her rags to absorb the blood, stroking her lower back and letting her soak in the deep stone bathtub that flowed constantly with steaming water from the hot springs in the centre of the island. He seemed to approve of her regular menstruation, and didn't stop his ministrations to her clitoris while she was in flow. He was her companion every evening, and she shared his bed at night, but during the day she was busy with the other Postulants; lessons in the mornings, from short, stout, booming-voiced Brother Leonard, who taught them how to read and write, and contemplate the holy scriptures; helping to prepare and serve the midday meal for all the community, cleaning up afterwards, wielding the heavy broom or scrubbing tables or cleaning crockery until her back and hands ached, but all was immaculate. The Postulant Mother would tolerate no sloppiness.
