I'd never been caught before so I was extremely defensive. And I was just as perplexed because I hadn't taken any gold yet. My first assumption was that one of the men told her something about my plan, but that wasn't the case. Sister Agatha had been eyeing me since the moment I arrived and she was able to read my intentions like a book.
Eventually it became clear that she wasn't going to judge or condemn me; instead, she was willing to listen to my story and offer compassion and understanding. I looked into Sister Agatha's eyes and saw a depth of sincerity that I had never seen before. So I confessed to everything. My whole life. My moral failures. My sins. My plan to steal the gold.
I cried into her arms, my tears soaked into her black dress. I'd never considered my relationship with God before or confronted my morality in this way. Her interest in my soul was genuine and I realized that I was a broken woman.
Sister Agatha explained that the life of deception was the wrong path to follow, especially because I had so much love to offer in this world. She ordered me to turn my life around and dedicate myself to a higher purpose. That the road to redemption would not be easy. It required humility and a willingness to change. She asked if I had the strength to leave my past behind and embrace a new life of service and faith, because my current life was headed toward destruction.
The problem was, I wasn't ready to leave my life behind. I was honest that my life revolved around expensive dresses and lavish parties and libertine sex. Her eyes made a strange gesture when I mentioned sex, because she could tell that it was an important part of my life. Looking back, it was important to her as well.
I'll never forget what she said to me.
"Malena, anything you could possibly need is between your legs, and it can be fulfilled with only your hand. You must be intuitive about it. Pamper your flower. Feed its natural curiosity with your mind. Whisper sweet poetry to it. Remember that if your flower is happy, then you are at peace."
It astonished me that a woman as respectable as Sister Agatha could say such a thing, but at the same time, I wanted to know more, to learn her secrets. There was a reason why so many looked favorably upon her and sought her spiritual guidance. She had the most commanding presence I'd ever seen from a woman. She was like a military general in a nun's veil. She only ever spoke when necessary and her words were always precise.
With a straight face, she wanted to ease my confusion and told me to lay back. So I did. I laid on my bed and Sister Agatha's no-nonsense approach made that feel like a visit from the doctor. She kept a steady expression while lifting the bottom of my robe to reveal my womanhood. Then she just stared at it.
It crossed my mind that she was some perverted old woman looking for an excuse to see what I had. Or maybe even touch me. A woman's body can only be repressed for so long and I figured Sister Agatha was a tortured soul who missed the erotic touch of another human being. Usually you hear these stories about men in the robe, but it made sense that women had the same torment.
The moment she touched me, I knew my assumption was wrong. Her hands rubbed across my thighs and hips with a sense of purpose. I could feel that she wasn't doing this for her pleasure, but for mine. She was teaching me something I'd never learned in my adult life, which was how to listen to my body's needs. Rather than going for instant gratification, she was truly listening. She was feeling my skin and flesh and sensing what my cunt wanted.
She prodded my knees like a teacher disciplining a student, but what she wanted was my legs spread, so I spread them. Her face remained stoic and unmoved, even as she looked deep inside my womanhood. Men in that situation would be overtaken with primal lust, with wide eyes and a mouth that hangs open, before thrusting inside of me. Not her. Her face remained composed and analytic.
Bending down, she looked closer, then pressed her ear against my labia. She wanted to listen. Then she brought her mouth to my labia, mere inches away.
She whispered into my vagina.
"Talk to me, sweet darling. What do you crave at this moment? The stroke of your lips? A kiss, perhaps? Fingers to go inside? Talk to me. Ah, that's it. You say you've never been serviced by a woman? Say no more. I know exactly what to do in this situation. I know exactly what you want. I can sense your needs, my darling."
No one ever 'talked' to my vagina before and I started thinking she was this crazy old lady, but her touch reminded me of who I was dealing with. Her hands pressed around my crotch like a massage, kneading up and down. When she touched my sex, it was like magic. She'd clearly done that before with other women and it was like second nature. No hesitation. No fear. Sister Agatha listened to my body and needs.
Spreading my hole and looking deeper, she was reading me like a book. One that was in a different language that no one could ever understand, not even myself at times. She had the power to decipher my sexuality.
It started with her finger going inside, probing me, studying what made me tick and where the pleasure spots were. Her other hand pressed down on my hip to prevent me from moving. The finger probed deeper until my body reacted and she found what she was looking for. Her finger made different patterns, different stroking techniques with different amounts of pressure.
"You feel this, right here, where I'm touching. That's your magic spot. You try it. Do it exactly as I'm doing it. Remember this spot and how to get there."
Sister Agatha pulled her finger away and I saw that it was drenched with my pleasure. Then I put my finger inside myself and did the same technique in the same spot. At that age, I was well-versed in the art of masturbation, but something about it felt different. How could a woman of God teach a whore like me new tricks? Somehow she managed and I followed her instructions. That was my first time letting someone watch me play with myself.
"Tell me, how does that feel?"
"Magnificent, actually."
"Keep going. You'll know when to stop."
Sister Agatha did the last thing I expected her to do. Her tongue stroked across my sex, up and down, inside and out. My finger was still inside hitting the magic spot and her mouth took me to the stars. When her tongue circled my clitoris, the orgasm took me to heaven.
"Keep this in your memory. In moments of desperation, remember this. Us playing together. It will help you relieve your tension and whatever doubts you have in life. Imagine my finger inside you. Imagine my tongue, if you must. These memories will serve you as a source of guidance. Use this, instead of looking for sin. Keep the sins away."
That was my introduction to a new life.
She left me in the room and I awoke a different woman. More than anything, I was curious about how someone as rigid as Sister Agatha could give me a sensation I never experienced before. I was determined to learn her secrets and stealing from the covenant fell further and further from my mind.
I lived a monastic lifestyle with the women. I prayed with them, ate with them, everything. In the back of my mind I always thought about Sister Agatha and her tongue. She never sought me. I sought her. Privately we'd meet in moments of silence, usually in between prayers or later at night. She was always very busy and private time was fleeting. Her words were always brief.
"Have you been playing with your flower? Do you let it blossom in your hand? You don't need me, trust your instincts. Listen to what your flower has to say."
But I did need Sister Agatha, though I never actually begged her. I'd never begged anyone in my life and I didn't intend to start. I'm a product of my mother, proud, fierce and independent. I was, however, suggestive with this woman using my eyes and the tone of my voice. She was keen enough to know how desperate I was.
Every once in a while, if I'd earned the privilege, she'd come to my room when everyone slept and teach me new tricks. I learned things about the human body that would surprise most doctors. The cum was sensational. The mess was spectacular. When her tongue performed magic, it was heaven.
In between orgasms we'd lay naked in my bed, my head resting on her shoulder as if she were a mother figure, and she'd speak about God and morality. I confessed more about my sinful lifestyle and all the things that I'd become ashamed of. She never judged me. Instead, she listened with an open heart while stroking my hair or breast. Her finger circling my nipple was the best.
At her guidance I wrote letters to the men I had swindled, apologizing and asking for forgiveness. I even mailed back their cash and gold until I had nothing left to my name. I never revealed my current location, just that I was living a new life in service of God.
In between letters and reimbursing what I could, Sister Agatha would watch me. Bearing my soul in these letters meant being naked in front of her, confessing my sins and admitting that I was a sinner. After each letter she rewarded me with her tongue.
What I still find unusual is that Sister Agatha never wanted anything in return. She never asked me to eat her out, never asked for my tongue or fingers, though I would have gladly returned the favor. I did offer on several occasions, even to this day. Her face never showed sexual desire toward me.
