Sister Mary Oatlash had a reputation as a strict disciplinarian. The boys at Saint Ignatius called her the Sister of No Mercy. But only behind her back, and only after looking carefully around to be sure she wasn't lurking about.
None of the boys would dare speak in her class. No one dared pass a note. To cross Sister Oatlash meant swift and severe punishment. But no transgression would stir her wrath more than the sin of impure thoughts. If she caught a boy's eyes lingering too long over a girl's body, or worse yet, another boy's, she would keep that boy after class. Sometimes the boy did not return to school for days. When they did, they sat gingerly in their desks. Not a boy had ever breathed a word about what went on in the classroom after all the other's had gone. God's wrath was fearful, and its name was Sister Oatlash.
The bell rang at 2:50 pm, dismissing Sister Oatlash's class. They boys snatched up their books and fled the room. All except for young Mr. Conway, who had been kept after. He sat at his desk with a look of defiance on his face, almost as if he were there by his choice and not at her command.
As Sister Oatlash had walked the aisles, the class working on their math problems, Mr. Conway had quickly turned the page of his notebook as she approached. Too quickly, to her practiced eye. Sister Oatlash had grabbed the book and flipped through it. She found that he had been drawing pictures of superheroes, and not pictures of fight scenes. The illustration depicted Wonder Woman kneeling before Superman. The top of her costume was pulled down and she was fondling her basketball-sized breasts, pinching shot-glass sized nipples. Superman's trunks were down and a phallus the size of a man's arm from the elbow to fist jutted out, dripping jism on Wonder Woman's upturned face. Sister Oatlash's rage was tempered only slightly by the skill and artistry of the drawing. It was deepened by the stirring of lust she felt between her legs. She checked her rage and only informed Mr. Conway that he was to stay after. He seemed unafraid, but the fear among the other boys was palpable. Now he sat with a smirk on his face.
She ordered the boy to the front of the classroom and ordered him to assume the position. It was one he was familiar with. But this time, instead of shyly turning his back and pulling down his pants as little as possible, the way all the boys did, he boldly undid his belt and dropped his pants in front of her. His cock was nearly erect and quite large for a boy his age. Her face reddened. She put down the ruler she had intended to use for his whipping and removed from her desk a switch. It had been cut from a rose bush. Thick as a thumb at its base, it tapered to a whip point three feet beyond. It was studded with thorns that stood like shark fins along its length. One thorn had been left at the gripping end, to dig into the wielder's palm, to remind her of the pain she was about to inflict.
She caught a handful of his long hair in her fist and slammed his head down on the desk. She raised the switch and brought it down with a fierce swoosh onto his bare buttocks. His taut, round, pink buttocks. As she whipped him, she felt herself grow wet between her legs. It angered her and the angrier she got, the harder she whipped. But the sight of the bloody stripes she was inflicting excited her more and more. She faltered, shocked at her loss of control. She threw the switched across the room and screamed at the boy to get out. This command he was happy to obey. When he was gone, she slumped to the floor, tears in her eyes.
"Why, God? Why do you torture me with these feelings? Why am I tortured by lust every waking hour?"
And it was true that she was. Sister Oatlash had not so much joined a convent, but fled to it. Fled from the passions and yearnings that filled her mind and threatened to grow beyond her control. Her faith was strong and her devotion to her Lord was true, but she was hiding in her habit, hiding from the unnatural lusts that caused her to go wet between her legs at the sight of every pretty boy and leggy girl she saw, that had caused her to masturbate several times a day, that caused her to give herself to man after man after man. She wept, looking at the bloody wound in her palm, so like the wound Christ suffered on the cross.
"Lord, am I not your faithful servant? Have I not denied myself these years? What must I do, Lord? How may I be cleansed?"
But no answer came. She dried her eyes, straightened her habit and headed back to the convent to pray for her soul. Her mind was so much in turmoil that she did not see the tall man until she was nearly upon him. Dressed all in black as he was, he stood hidden in the shadows until he chose to reveal himself. He wore a black suit, ankle length trench coat and slouch hat. His face was severe, his nose prominent, his eyes steel grey. In his flapping coat he looked like a great bird of prey. When she tore her eyes away from his piercing eyes, she saw that he wore the Roman collar of the priesthood. Around his neck was a crucifix on a heavy, steel chain. There was something odd about it, but before she could define what, he spoke. His voice was like the crack of glacial ice.
"Sister Oatlash?"
"Yes, Father."
"This is for you."
He handed her a thick, ornate envelope. He nodded to her when her questioning eyes asked if she should open it. She slit the wax seal. Inside she found a heavy page of letterhead, the letterhead of the Vatican! Her hands trembled as she read the hand-written letter;
"Sister in Christ,
Your immediate presence is required at the Vatican. Leave at once. Tell no one. Take nothing. Ask no questions. The bearer of this letter will see to your needs."
When she saw the signature, she dropped to her knees and crossed herself. It was signed by the Holy Father himself! The raptorish priest took her hand and lifted her to her feet. Her legs wobbled and he supported her with a firm grip.
"Will you come with me?" He asked.
"Yes, Father."
And she did. The next 20 hours were a whirlwind of private cars and private jet. The priest spoke not another word to her and she dared not ask a question. She ate only lightly the fruit and bread he offered her. She slept not at all. As if in a dream, she found herself crossing the familiar plaza before the Offices of the Holy See. She was ushered into an ancient hail and down long flights of stairs. She was directed into a small room with six chairs. She was the last to arrive. The other chairs were filled with young nuns like herself. No one spoke. They looked at each other clandestinely, from the corners of their eyes. Then a door at the end of the room opened and a woman entered. She was one of the most beautiful women Sister Oatlash had ever seen. She felt the familiar, forbidden moisture between her thighs. The other nuns seemed to squirm in their chairs as well.
The woman wore the habit of a nun, but instead of coarse cloth, it was made of soft, black leather. Around her waist, in place of the usual rough rope, was a braided whip. The phallic handle hung at her side. She wore the same crucifix as the priest around her neck, but now Sister Oatlash had leisure to see what it was that had made it seem so odd. The figure of Christ on the cross, instead of the usual pose of lifelessness, was straining mightily at the nails that held him to the wood. And his muscular body was naked; his Holy Godhood hung well down his thigh. His face was a mask of rage. The leather-clad Sister moved to the front of the room and spoke.
"Sisters in Christ. Give thanks to God, for you have been chosen from among the many for a special task. A task our Holy Father feels is the most important facing the mother church. You have been chosen for your special qualities. You are all young. You are all beautiful. Your faith and your calling are strong. Your devotion to the church unquestionable. Your desire for discipline unarguable. And you are all plagued by the sin of wantonness. What our secular scientists would call nymphomania. Your sin has tortured you. Has confused you. Now it will serve you and the Church. Your sin will serve your God. There is a great plague afflicting our Brothers and Sisters. The plague of unnatural desire. The plague of Homosexuality. You are to be the instruments by which the Church will cure this plague. For the next two years you will remain here in the Convent of the Order of Magdalene. You will learn your mission. You will learn the skills you will need to carry out that mission. These shall be your teachers."
The Mother Superior clapped her hands once and the door opened again. Into the room came three women, each more stunning than the next. Each one of them magnificently naked. Sister Oatlash felt a gush of woman's juices at her center. She felt a trickle down her thigh. The women walked gracefully to the front of the room and stood unashamed before the trembling nuns. The Mother Superior walked to each and introduced them.
The first was a tall and slender. Brown hair hung loose about her muscular shoulders. She seemed to be of Euro Indian extraction. Her flawless skin was the color of Honduran mahogany. Her breasts were large and round, with chocolate colored nipples the size of cherries. Between her legs was a thick thatch of black curls that rose to the lower curve of her belly and trailed up to her naval. Thick curls peeked from under her arms. The Mother Superior spoke again.
