So through endless twilights I dreamed and waited, though I knew not what I waited for. Then in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I could rest no more, and I lifted entreating hands to the single black ruined tower that reached above the forest into the unknown outer sky. And at last I resolved to scale that tower, fall though I might; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.
― H. P. Lovecraft, The Outsider
May 29, 1933
Strange are the rhythms of the body when the mind is unsettled. I should have slept like the dead well into the day, but I awoke before dawn, watching the sun rise with a dread like that of a vampire trapped outside their resting place.
I had dreamt that I was dancing in the ominous woods under the ethereal light of three luminous moons. Amber horns sprouted from lush, curly hair which flowed down my back like a cape, ending with the last strands caressing my buttocks. My hoofs beat a jubilant ballad before the gathered centaur as I twirled in rapturous worship of her dark majesty. Claps and cheers from the adoring crowd spurred my powerful form, for I was no longer a diminutive woman but a powerful satyr, thick furry legs accentuated with a cute bushy tail. The fur tapered off while it traveled up my stomach as the sands of the shore give way to grassland. My enormous breast swayed in their nakedness as sweat dripped down my stomach and I skipped among the rocks atop a towering hill, all the while watching their leader approach.
He was a large, burly chested man, with an even larger lower body, like that of a Clydesdale. As he approached my playing ceased and others took it up, for it must never stop. I spread my arms and bowed, eyeing his growing erection.
As the sun filled my room I rose from my bed, drinking from a pitcher of water I keep before kneeling at the cross I have hanging on my southern wall.
"Father, I have failed you so much. I pray that you strengthen my resolve today as I face what we know awaits. Be with me as I go through this. Catch me if I should stumble, help me to climb back from the abyss and bring this man out of Egypt. When I succeed, I will praise you! You are worthy of all praise and honor..."
I trailed off, and thought for a moment, before asking, "Why did you make me this way, if it is so wrong? Is this the touch of the enemy whom I let take root in my life after my parents died? I swear that I want to repent but my heart craves her so strongly..."
My voice choked, and I could not continue, I let the silence of God hang in the air before whispering, "Amen."
A gentle tapping came at the door, I guessed correctly that it was Margaret, and she embraced me when she came in. "Kiss me." I told her, with which she obliged, our bodies falling into bed. She seemed to immediately understand my need for comfort and provided it with the intermingling of our bodies, arms and legs interlocking, clothes being stripped until we were pressed together, her bosom rubbing erotically against mine, the hard points of her nipples giving me goosebumps as they grazed my skin.
It is strange that I once thought it odd how some men fixated on my breast, now I wonder why some men didn't. It must be as Freud said, breast are the first object of pleasure all people know, and that is rooted deep in our subconscious, for I suckled on Margaret's breast that morning as if they provided all the warmth and safety in the world. There is certainly nothing about the nipple that is extraordinary; round, with a soft outline and hard center its simplicity belies the euphoria of taking it between my lips, and though the delicate flesh surrounding it is silk-like no pillow ever aroused my womanhood to weeping thus.
Sister Margaret allowed me to nurse at her teat for a few minutes before grabbing my hair and forcing a deep and passionate kiss against my sighing lips, one of her hands moving under the covers and her fingers working my sex. We locked eyes as I groaned against her mouth.
"Does that feel good?" She asked me.
God what a foolish question. The splendor of a woman's body, Lord I can't put into words the divine perfection you have wrought. Perhaps you've done too great a work, dear God, for surely you realized that not only men would covet the incredible contours of a woman's flesh which flow like water over a bed of stones long worn by time into absolute smoothness. That sin should follow from the desire for the artistry on display is a foregone conclusion, that men should kill one another over it, and that the bearer of it indeed should be become its victim too, ah, so inevitable, as unstoppable as the orgasm Margaret gave me like the sweetest gift on Christmas morning. All breath left my body and I feared fainting before enjoying the last echoing note that reverberated throughout my body, ringing from my sex through my tightening stomach and down to the tips of my small toe.
Margaret kissed my face gently as I came down, her tongue licking the tears from my cheeks, whether I had cried before she came in or began when she touched me I cannot say.
"What happened last night?" She asked me.
I explained the events, without going into graphic details, and Margaret sat back, a strange look on her face.
"So the Mother Superior will overlook our relations if you... perform favors for her?" She asked me.
I thought for a moment before responding, "I think it is a bit more than that, she doesn't care if we fornicate, I think such acts must be common in the abbey."
"Has she turned from Christ?" Margaret wondered aloud. "How many of the Sisters are part of this?"
On both counts I had no answer, Margaret then suggested something that shocked me, "Perhaps we should try to be accepted by her inner circle?"
I shook my head, "Dumonte said he was investigating this cult because people are disappearing, and seeing as we have no lot of men loitering on the grounds they must be..." I trailed off.
"No, I can't believe it." Margaret said, shaking her head. "The Mother Superior may be lustful but, killing people?"
"All will come to light." I squeezed her hand. "She doesn't suspect that I've found Dumonte, she just knows I'm a..." I stopped myself at the last, looking into Margaret's eye.
"Mine." She whispered, "You're mine."
Margaret left to continue her daily routine and I went about the day's work, the most important of which was crafting a duplicate of the cell key.
This process was not difficult, but I took my time, performing the work in the tool shed. The duplicate, made of oak, seemed solid. It would not hold up to extended use, but I only needed it to function once. Shamefully, I did spend a moment staring at it, contemplating discarding the fabricated key and letting Dumonte rot. The knowledge that I could be removing the one person who might condone my relationship with Sister Margaret tested my resolve. Then I remembered James 1:15, "After desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death."
"I will do what's right." I muttered, to the Lord perhaps, or just to myself.
