All The Young Girls Love Laura Pt 04

Copyright 2016, Lisa Summers

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters in this work were 18 years of age or older, at the time of any sexual activity.

Chapter 1

My name is Laura Hendricks. I'm female and strictly lesbian, 21, and have been servicing the sexual, personal, emotional and intimate needs of other women for several years now. I'm in college, quite bright, and very attractive. I present as femme - very, very femme - but I really think I have a butch dyke's heart (or at least, her strap-on, and it's a big one!)

I make a very good living servicing the extremely large number of "straight" women who are either MARBLES (married but lesbian) or at least bi or bi-curious. I don't mean to sound boastful, but women are rarely bi-curious after spending time with me. More often from that point on they're very, very bi, and in several cases, full blown lesbian.

My discretion is second only to my ability to bring other women pleasure, and my dance card is beyond full. I've related some examples of the women who hire me in previous stories, and I could write many books about the variety of my patrons, who all share the trait of being loving women who aren't receiving enough love from the usual sources.

My services primarily include bringing to those women a sense of satisfaction, of total sensory pleasures and most importantly, their importance to another woman and an intimate togetherness.

But in plain language, I fuck other women for money.

It's a unique, and extremely satisfying occupation. There are few women at age 21 who can experience mind-shattering orgasms every night, bring even more wondrous pleasure to another woman, and make a good living at the same time. And the only limit to my capabilities is time - I must continually turn away women, most of them either lonely housewives or busy executives, in order to attend to my 'stable' of clients in the manner that they, and I, expect.

Until recently, my days consisted of balancing this full-time occupation with my attendance at a prominent university in the City, and few other concerns.

That is, until I took on the job of training Melissa Holloway in receiving pleasure. It was a unique assignment - odd, really - Melissa was engaged to be married, to a guy. Her mother, Susan Holloway, she's often in the society pages, wanted her to understand all the ways that her husband should pleasure her, so that she would get the most out of the physical pleasures of marriage. That's what she told me and I had no reason to doubt her.

I've never been with a man, and never wanted to be with one, but it's my understanding - and hundreds of women will back me up - that men just don't have a clue. Of course, they also don't have a vagina, which is why they've never interested me, but that's another story.

Anyway, I was shocked when I first met the 18 year old bride to be, to find that she was the most beautiful woman in existence. Yeah, I fell for her almost immediately.

I was torn in a way, I had agreed to render a service and I intended to do so. Who says that whores don't have a code of honor? Well, everyone I suppose, but nonetheless I intended to do the right thing.

I had brought her along, introducing her to the various pleasures that another person, man or woman, can give a woman, until the final night that we spent together, in which we did everything - I mean everything - that two women can do together, and the words "I love you" were spoken, by me at least while pretending to be Jason, her husband to be.

The way that evening concluded - both of us sweaty and wet in bed the next morning, left me unclear as to how Melissa felt about me, although the night we spent together was surely the most exciting, pleasurable and romantic that any two people ever experienced together.

After she rushed off to take care of routine matters involving her mother, and Jason, I was left to take care of my own life.

Things inexplicably became a little hazy after that...

Chapter 2

I felt as though I were in a dream. Dismissing the vague unreality around me, I considered my current situation. I had received a request for my services from a good friend and patron, Sister Martina Porter, Mother Superior of the Sisters of Care and Hope, whose convent was located in a somewhat run down part of the city. The Sisters ran a girls' charter high school, and engaged in charitable works in the area. Though they were saintly in their community acts, they were hardly so in their internal intimate inclinations.

I thought back to the first time I had met Sister Martina, three years previous.

Chapter 3

I would need to fit in, posing as a young girl entering the company of nuns as a postulant seeking to join their Order. I put on the simple dress I had purchased at Walmart, a modest and plain blue peasant dress that was on clearance, for $8. I was very proud that I'd been able to find something at such a great price, and where I was going it wouldn't matter anyway. The one - or two - treats I reserved for myself were the Kellie Push Up bra and panty set in pink from Adore Me. I could still feel sexy underneath, even if my surroundings for the next few hours promised to be quite different.

I was 18 at the time, and somewhat new to the business in which I had decided to engage, as a courtesan to women romantically interested in other women. In many ways I was quite ready for the winding path my vocation would place me on, but in other ways I had much to learn. Responding to a query from a nun would certainly give me insight to the quirks and twists of human nature, if not result in actual employment in my field. I had little to lose, and so I followed up on the discreet enquiry.

I walked three blocks, pulling my small suitcase - also a Walmart purchase - behind me, the wheels sticking and locking awkwardly, and caught the A9 bus that would take me downtown into a part of town that had seen better days. Though still genteel, the sidewalks were populated by older women pulling small grocery carts loaded with actual groceries, and not yet the flattened beer and soda cans, or worse, hypodermic needles and meth vials that one finds these days in some areas of the city.

It was a one block walk to the iron grated door in the brick-walled entrance, the only adornments a small buzzer and a tiny brass plaque that had written on it, "Convent of the Sisters of Care and Hope." In what seemed a jarring note, given the antiquated neighborhood and its inhabitants, there was a website address below it.

The convent was attached to a small charter school for girls in the area, obviously low income and serving a desperate need as role models for youth. Some of the nuns taught there, others served their neighborhood and community itself.

I rang the bell, and after a minute or so, an elderly woman approached across the interior courtyard and smiled at me through the gate. She was dressed in clothing much nicer than mine, though even more plain. I had imagined that she might be wearing the black and white, burqa-like outfits of my Catholic school upbringing, but judging by this older nun - if nun she was - that fashion had changed radically.

"Yes, may I help you?" she asked in a friendly manner, her voice quavering slightly.

"Hello," I said. "I'm Laura Jones, I was referred by the Archbishop's office." As I had discovered in my research into the Order, coming in as someone referred by the 'higher ups' would be better than if I disclosed that I was a simple anonymous postulant, a woman who had already begun the long process of becoming a nun, but several stages below that of an actual, real knuckle-slamming sister. I felt a little guilty about making a mental joke, just as anyone naturally speaks in hushed tones inside a church. Even someone as worldly as I am could understand that.

"Oh yes, we've been expecting you," she replied, smiling a little bit more as she turned the heavy latch on the gate, allowing me entry.

"I'm Sister Maria," she introduced herself, though we didn't shake hands, or embrace or air kiss, forms of greeting that we're all used to in open society.

I entered the courtyard, what seemed to me a beautiful sanctuary entirely different from the world outside the eight foot high brick wall. There was a small fountain bubbling away merrily, the white noise of the running water washing away so much of the traffic sounds of the outside world.

It really was an amazing shift in realities. The grounds inside the courtyard were simple, with common flowering plants of our area providing bright splashes of color to counterpoint the drab brick ground and walls and delight the visual sense. There were occasional scents of sweet and spicy floral perfume from less colorful but olfactory-stimulating herbs that I couldn't put a name to, but which brought back memories of my mother cooking in her kitchen.

Above all, I felt a sense of peace and introspection already, and I hadn't even set foot in the convent itself. "This is beautiful," I breathed, looking around.

"God has been very kind in providing us this location," she said. "It was a bequest from a wealthy industrialist a century ago, and it's been home to many of us for so long that we can almost forget where we came from originally." Her comment was a reminder that some women who enter the religious life are also escaping intolerable conditions of poverty or sociological misery, as a haven from pain.

She smiled again. "Mother Superior is expecting you, please follow me," she said.

She took me inside, through a wide oak door and into a wide, white-painted hallway. I couldn't help but feel the mixed emotions of my girlhood welling up as the smells and sights were so very much like those I had experienced in grade school.

"Nothing really changes," I thought. I felt as though I were 10 again, and had to remind myself of why I was there. After reaching the end of the long hallway, after passing numerous painted doors with ancient frosted glass inserts, apparently to the classrooms of the school, we came to one with a typical office style white on faux wood engraved plaque that said "Sister Martina Porter, Mother Superior."

The older nun knocked, and a pleasant, but firm-sounding woman's voice responded, "Enter." We walked in to find a stern looking nun, in age, anywhere from 30 to 50, her headgear and robes the same ones that I remembered from my own childhood attending a similar religious-based school, long, black veil and floor length robes, and a starched white wimple, a head band worn over a nun's forehead. Her lack of more than basic makeup - none, really - let her natural self show through what I took to be a serious business woman.

"Welcome to our home," she said warmly as she rose, standing behind her desk, her hands extended out and down with her palms facing up, her smile, body language and words putting me at ease.

"Thank you," I responded somewhat shyly. "It's been a while since I interacted with nuns, and the styles don't seem to have changed that much. Though, nuns were taller back then."

"And I take it that you were shorter...and perhaps in grade school, and all the nuns wore shapeless black and white robes..." she laughed.

At that, the very old joke "What's black and white and red all over..." ran quickly through my head. I hoped that neither nun was telepathic. They had been when I was in school, but perhaps that power had waned in the species since then.

"Yes ma'am, I mean Sister, er, Mother Superior," I replied, blushing. What a great start for me!

She laughed. "Most of the Sisters here wear the modern habit. You'd be hard pressed to tell them apart from a secretary at an insurance agency, say, other than the short veil we wear on our heads. I usually only wear this habit when there are ceremonial events to preside over." She sighed.

"Much like politicians, Mothers Superior have to 'put on a show' sometimes."

"Why don't you just call me Martina, alright?" she continued, coming around from her maple wood desk. "And you are, of course, Laura Hendricks, aka Laura Jones."

"Yes, um, Martina," I responded, sitting in the chair that she offered.

"You are here because I requested that you show me what you could offer to our Order of nuns. We are religious, we serve Him and the people of this community. We have taken vows of poverty, of obedience, of chastity" - she emphasized the last - "and that is our life before Him."

I began to wonder if there had been some dreadful mistake, when she continued.

"And in order to comply with those vows, we need some sort of release valve, lest all the resulting tensions build up inside us as individuals and as a group. That would not be good."

She sighed, and then smiled.

"And so we allow the Sisters to express carnal love for each other, a very satisfactory and pleasant solution as it happens, and in addition we would like to occasionally bring the Sisters 'toys' to play with, I.E. women who could add to their experience. Unfortunately, until I heard about you, that was a very difficult position to fill."

She smiled again, and now her eyes were on my breasts.

"You look so adorable in that rather plain dress, don't you Laura," Martina said smoothly. "But you're not a plain girl at all, You're quite beautiful."

Well. What do you say when a middle aged nun is flirting with you? I relaxed. This was something that I was more accustomed to.

In my case, you say whatever makes the customer happy. My job is simple.

I do women. And teen girls. And their luscious, wet pussies. Their adorable, soft breasts. Their plump round bottoms. Their cute little balloon knot assholes. Their full, quivering red lips, smeared with lipstick and pressed against mine. Their wet tongues slithering into my mouth as they fantasize them inside my own moist pussy slit, lapping up my rich, sweet feminine cream.

I get paid to do them, though I have no hesitation about fucking a cute girl gratis. I had been contacted by a friend of a friend, as Sister Martina sought someone discreet to provide "necessary services on occasion" to the Convent, and this was my first meeting with the somewhat intimidating Mother Superior, the capo di tutti capi, the "boss of all bosses" as far as I was concerned.

I wet my lips, and then spoke.

"To be honest, I was just thinking of how attractive you are, Sister."

You don't have to be clever when buttering up a client. You only need to be able to fake sincerity well.

"Do you ever get to go out on the town - I know that you've taken all sorts of vows, but to deprive the world of your beauty..."

She simpered.

"You're so sweet, dear girl," she cooed as she stepped in closer to me. "We are so blessed to have such a pretty young thing visiting with us today. Do you know how pretty you really are?"

"Oh, Mother Superior, you're making me blush," I responded coyly, my eyes downcast. "I can feel myself getting warm...here," I said, my hand weakly fluttering over my breasts.

"Darling child, you must be careful, we don't want you to become overheated. That might be bad for your health. You must allow yourself to breathe." So saying, her fingers were busy at the top button of my dress, the first of six she would have to negotiate to 'free' my breathing.

"Oh yes, I think you're getting better already," she whispered as she stared at my breasts inside the cute bra. "Oh, you're so lovely," she whispered.

In spite of my alleged improvement, she continued unbuttoning my dress, and I submissively allowed her to undress me, her fingers 'accidentally' trailing over my cloth clad boobs as she did so.

"That feels so nice," I prompted her. "Your fingers are so gentle...and loving," I looked up at her. Her eyes were hungry. I intended to give her whatever she wanted.

"The air is cool," I giggled. "I think my little nipples are getting hard."

Her eyes keenly fixed on the small protrusions in the soft fabric of the bra.

"Oh dear," she sighed, a look of worry crossing her face. "We don't want them to become irritated, do we? I'm afraid your sweet little nipples might chafe. You'd better take off that bra." She began to reach around me, her black clad arms strong and sure.

I was reasonably certain that this wasn't the first time that she'd had her arms around a half-dressed young girl.

"Yes, Mother Superior," I murmured submissively, my pussy wetting and clit tingling at the unusual position I was in. So often my "dates" like to submit to me, and here was one who wanted to dominate. The turnabout was...exciting.

She lifted up the hem of her long black robe. The fabric was lighter than it looked, and as her right hand lifted the cloth, shockingly her bare legs were exposed. Shapely but pale, her skin smooth and flawless, her lower legs were revealed, then slowly, her knees and then up her thighs, the flesh corded with unexpected muscles.

"I like to jog in my free time," she said, "and so do a few of the younger nuns here. We especially enjoy showering after we work up a little sweat. It's quite...refreshing."

I could picture the scene after their workout, three or four healthy, pretty women disrobing before each other, then joining in a group shower, their glistening, naked bodies with a rosy glow, soaping off each other's bodies. Their mutual cleansing devolving into group caresses, then soft sighs as their touches took them higher and higher into a pleasurable state of bliss.

Bodies pressing into each other, steam rising around them as their excitement rose. Kisses shared more and more until they became a groping, wriggling mass of girl flesh, fingers slipping wetly into even wetter holes, small nubs of clits being pressed, caressed, then kissed.

Hips shaking, hands pressing wet hair as faces melded with vulvas, tongues eagerly lapping up the sweet cream of their sisters. Soft cries of ecstasy, the greatest pleasure available to a woman from another woman, god's name, not God's, invoked as pleasure filled each woman, melting her core, shudders of delight shared and multiplied, woman to woman.

All of that passed through my imagination in an instant, and I knew that it was true. I envied her their pleasures, and intended to do my best to bring her similar pleasure now.

"Look," she whispered, as her fingers pulled her black robe ever higher. Her thighs were lovely, as beautiful as any I've seen at the beach. I felt a little sadness that they were never shared with the world, but then, her sisters did get to enjoy them, it was true. Her panties were, shockingly, red and bikini style, the sheer lace fabric highlighting her sex, her vulva plump. I couldn't tell at that moment if she was yet moist, though I'd soon learn.

"Come to me," she murmured. As if in a daze, but with my body feeling the sexual electricity, I stumbled forward.

"Darling girl," she said, "kiss me, then show your fealty and submission to me."

I did as she ordered, our lips coming together warmly, her breath instantly filling my lungs as our mouths opened together, her command of me total. I would do anything she told me to do, and I felt an exciting thrill as I tingled at the thought of fulfilling her nastiest desires.

We kissed for long minutes, her hands frankly roaming over my body, caressing my hips, squeezing my ass cheeks, massaging and pinching my breasts, each invasive touch, rather than offending me, exciting me, heightening my desire to be naked with her, our bodies pressed in mad lovemaking.

"Kiss me, darling," she hissed in my ear, her breath hot on my cheek. "My inner core longs for your touch, the caress of your sweet, young, girlish tongue inside me. Lick my womanhood, drink my dew."

I felt the dark fabric slip over the back of my head as I fell to my knees before her, the fragrance of her pussy growing stronger as my face sunk down to the level of her crotch. I inhaled her scent, the heat, moisture and feminine nature of her smells thrilling me, my own pussy wetting with desire to taste her, to fuck her wet slit with my hungry tongue.