I was 18, in my last year of boarding school. I was lying in my cot, feverishly rubbing my clit and trying not to make any wet sounds or rustling that might be heard by the other girls. I hadn't counted on Sister Mary making her rounds and catching me while my eyes were squeezed shut near the climax. Without a word or a sound, she snatched my hand away through the blanket, took hold of my arm, and all but dragged me from the room. A quelling look ensured that I wouldn't make undue noise and wake the other girls.
I was shaking, both from being denied the release I'd been so close to obtaining, and from fear about what she might do. Call my parents? Send me home in disgrace? I was not prepared for the gathering of people in the theatre room where we held school plays. Puzzled, I looked around and saw several nuns, a priest, a few classmates, a number of people who usually only came to the school on official business, and the groundskeeper.
There was an old Victorian desk that usually sat in the wings waiting for its next use as a prop, but now it was in the center of the stage, and had been transformed into something entirely different. It had been opened to reveal its hidden purpose as a reclining chair of sorts, with odd stirrups like at the gynecologist's office. Oh. I felt the wetness release between my tightly clenched thighs as I was led to the desk on the stage. A classmate, head down and half-supported by a nun, was being led away from the desk.
