I must confess that my pussy remained sopping wet for the remainder of the day after what I'd seen the crystal ball at the midwives' place. Images of Richard du Luxure, the 9th Earl du Chatmangre, filled my mind's theatre: Tall, handsome, strong. The optimal vision of a robust, muscular and forthrightly virile form of pious Christian manhood.
Properly equipped, too.
Of course, other images filled my mind, as well: A voluptuous blonde and a curvy brunette lapping at each other's sensitive bits. Both women driven mad by cock: Cocks in their mouths, their pussies, up their asses. Recalling how they'd both fallen apart under the rendering heat of extreme pleasure made me desire similar treatment..
How I wished to be one of them -- semen gushing into my mouth as another cock exploded deep inside my rump.
But it was my imagination of that final, forbidden pleasure -- a penis penetrating my vagina and filling it -- that drove me wild. In the days since my return from the convent, I'd been introduced to the wonders of sucking, being sucked, and taking it up the tight route. But the divinely intact state of my precious hymen precluded penetration by even so much as my pinky.
As soon as I retired for the evening I fell straight away to rubbing my pleasure bulb, And with nothing to do, all alone in the midst of a long winter's night, not only did I bring one one petit morte, but soon another after that. I only fell asleep after I'd sodomized my own ass with the handle of my hairbrush while furiously rubbing my buzzing clit into blissful oblivion. Three in one night.
I felt I had the capacity for much more.
That night I dreamed I was back in the convent, except I was utterly, radiantly, glorious nude. So perfectly, serenely, erotically naked that I floated hither and yon like a divine mist, without my feet touching the floor, bourne up by a cloud, bathed in a heavenly, golden light, smiling beatifically at my former Sisters of Christ, who bustled about with their daily chores.
"I suppose this is your job now?" Mother Superior demanded of my ethereal self. "Floating about all beautifully, sinfully naked?"
"Yes, I suppose it is," I mused back to her.
"There's more to life than sex, you know," she scolded.
"How would you know that?" I replied.
I woke after sunrise, an event so rare that I sat bolt upright in bed. There was no sign that my chambermaid had even paid me a visit. Not only was the sun up, but it had already climbed above the ridge east of Norman Hall.
Downstairs I found Mother seated, alone, at the dining table, while servants scrubbed down its wooden surface and swept the stone floor. It was a sharply angled, sunny morning, bright enough to cut the hall's usual gloom.
Mother motioned to one of the maids upon seeing me, and indicated that I should come sit beside her.
"I hope you had a good rest," she said.
"Why didn't you wake me as usual?" I asked. "I've slept through breakfast."
"You've got a big night ahead," she said, sipping her herbal tea. "In fact, after I feed you a good lunch, I'm going to give you a sleepy brew and put you down for another nap."
"Does this have something to do with Faerie Rock? That place the midwives mentioned yesterday?"
"It does indeed," Mother replied, directing a servant via gestures. Moments later, the girl returned and placed a tray of steaming tea and some fragrant buns before me. Mother waited until the maid completed her task and then sent all the servants out of the room.
"You're going to be the centerpiece of a witches' esbat dear. Last New Moon of the year before the Solstice. Quite auspicious."
I'd only been beyond the convent walls for a few days, but I'd quickly passed the point of fainting at each of Mother's new announcements. Once I accepted her premise that the Church was nothing more than a necessary device for social control, her other lessons came with comparative ease. Even learning that midwives were witches -- actual witches -- was more or less a shrug at this point.
But the thought of being the centerpiece of one of their ceremonies?
"Are you out of your fucking mind, Mother?"
"LANGUAGE!" she said, slapping my wrist.
We sat there in still silence, both of us sipping our tea. When she didn't reply, I pressed ahead.
"Are you, in fact, a witch, Mother?"
She giggled brightly.
"Oh heavens, no, Catherine. Witching is far too much work. When I need magic done, I hire it. Appearances must still be met, you know."
"As I'm beginning to learn."
"Good for you, dear."
"So then what does a 'witches' esbat' entail?" I asked.
"Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. There's a fire and a circle and everyone wears robes. There's some chanting and whatnot, some lovely little cakes and ale, and then the priest and priestess of the coven conduct some business, yada yada yada, and then everyone shakes hands like after church and they all go home."
"And you're not skipping anything?" I pressed.
"Nothing important," she said, avoiding my eyes.
Staring at her was all it took to get my answer.
"Alright, fine," she confessed. "A heathen wearing stag antlers is going to take your virginity tonight in a rather public way. And please don't faint again. It's tiresome."
"But ... my maidenhead... " I began.
